


In Loco Parentis (or Adventures in Godparenting)

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Godfather Sherlock, Godmother Molly, Godparenting shenanigans, eventual actual Sherlolly, godparenting obligations, married sherlolly, pre-sherlolly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:12:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: A series of one-shots, following Sherlock and Molly on their godparenting journey, beginning post-'The Six Thatchers' and going right up until Rosie reaches adulthood.Some fluff, some angst, some comedy and some very, very dubious godparenting...





	1. The Bait and the Beard

Molly was in the middle of cleaning the bathroom sink when she heard her phone buzz on the table out on the landing. She tilted her wrist to check her watch – it was too late in the day for it to be Mike, asking her to come in and cover a shift. And anyway, if it was, she was going to ignore it; she had covered more than her fair share of sickness and family emergencies, and it was a beautiful August morning, and as soon as she finished the bathroom, she was going to take a book into the garden and enjoy it.

The phone buzzed again.

She only knew one person who was that insistent. And he  _knew_  she wasn’t at work, because Molly knew for a fact that he memorised her shifts - so if he wanted lab access or body parts today, he was going to have to try to unburn some of those bridges he’d spectacularly torched with her colleagues at Bart’s.

She was reaching up to scrub the shower screen when another text arrived.

Sighing, she peeled off one of her pink rubber gloves and picked up her phone.

**Are you at home? – SH**

Followed almost immediately by…

**Do you have plans? – SH**

Molly rolled her eyes. Would it make the slightest bit of difference if she did? She immediately wondered where this was going; was he going to demand her presence at Baker Street, for assistance with an experiment? He’d been doing that a lot recently, particularly since Rosie’s christening. The last time had been a bit weird; Molly knew for a fact that he had conducted the very same experiment a few weeks earlier, and anyway, he hadn’t seemed to care particularly about the results. When the takeaway – which Molly hadn’t even realised he’d ordered - arrived, he forgot about science completely.

She would never in a million years say it to him – and he would sooner set fire to his violin than admit it - but it struck her that perhaps Sherlock Holmes was lonely.

**Molly, are you actually awake? – SH**

She sighed, smiling slightly at the question. The idea that she might be asleep at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning was laughable.

**Yes - I’m cleaning – MH**

There was a short pause.

**Why? – SH**

She rolled her eyes again.

**Because the cleaning fairies are so busy at Baker Street that they can’t make it this week – MH**

Molly pushed a few strands of loose hair off her forehead, and tightened her hair in its no-nonsense-domestic-chores ponytail. Time enough for a response to come through.

**It looks clean enough to me – SH**

A frown of confusion was just starting to form on her face when the penny dropped. Somewhere, within a few metres of her house, Sherlock Holmes was enjoying being a smartarse. She could just picture the look of self-satisfaction on that annoyingly handsome face.

Molly padded down the stairs barefoot, and swung open the front door, speech already prepared.

“So, what is-” – she stopped. “Oh.”

“Good morning, Molly,” Sherlock replied, with a small, neat smile.

This was…not what she was expecting. There was something wrong with this picture.

Sherlock Holmes was wearing a baby carrier.

“Sorry, didn’t I mention Rosie was with me?” he asked, with casual innocence. “Say hello, Rosie. Don’t mind your Aunt Molly – she’ll catch up in a minute.”

Rosie, facing Sherlock’s chest in the carrier and wearing a yellow sunhat, twisted her head to try to see her godmother. Flicking Sherlock a look of suspicion, Molly took a step down from the front door to greet Rosie, lifting the hat to place a kiss on her forehead, and taking her tiny hand in hers.

“Are John and Mary alright?” she asked, cautiously.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t they be?”

Molly jammed her hands into the pockets of her shorts, suddenly felt slightly guilty about the train of thought that led her to ask the question.

“No, no reason, I…”

“Isn’t this what godparents do?” Sherlock queried, waving his hands above Rosie.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Molly acknowledged, unable to shake that flicker of scepticism. “So...you’re babysitting?”

“Indeed,” he replied, with a tight smile. “Providing John and Mary with a much-needed opportunity for rest and relaxation, while also allowing them to rediscover themselves as a couple, independent of their roles as parents.”

Molly folded her arms; that sounded suspiciously like something that might have been gleaned from a book or website.

“I see.”

“The speed at which John propelled Rosie and me towards the front door, and the less-than-subtle wink he gave me on departure, suggested he believes that they’re going to have sex - but I strongly suspect that what they will  _actually_  be doing is sleeping.”

Molly gave a brief snort of laughter. Now that was out of the way, she could then address the other very strange element of this tableau.

“W-what are you wearing?” she queried.

Sherlock looked down at his attire, and then back up at her, as though he didn’t understand the question.

“You’re, um, wearing jeans,” she elaborated.

“Yeeess.”

“I didn’t know you owned any, that’s all,” Molly said, thinking it probably wasn’t worth mentioning the casual short-sleeved shirt, or the sunglasses perched atop his curls. And she _definitely_  wasn’t mentioning the effect the whole ensemble was having on her.

“I didn’t know  _you_  owned denim cut-offs,” Sherlock countered. “We’re both full of surprises, apparently.”

Molly felt a blush rise in her cheeks, despite herself. Suddenly, her legs felt very exposed indeed; she found herself feeling immensely relieved that she’d at least shaved them the night before - before harshly reprimanding herself for thinking that way. 

“It’s summer and I’m cleaning,” she replied, defensively. “And anyway, I wasn’t expecting company, remember?”

Sherlock looked down at her from underneath raised eyebrows. 

“You should probably change,” he told her, stepping past her into the hallway. “Not dramatically – but perhaps something with slightly fewer holes.”

Oh god – he’d noticed the holes in her vest top. Of course he had. Again, it wasn’t as though anyone dressed up to do housework, which Sherlock would know if he ever actually did any. He gave a small shooing gesture in the direction of her stairs – the git.

“You could wear that nice t-shirt,” Sherlock suggested. “The-”

He waved his hand vaguely, searching for the word.

“-the nautical one.”

Molly frowned, eventually realising that he was probably talking about a top she owned that had little ships and anchors printed all over it. She wasn’t sure how she should take it that a) apparently Sherlock noticed what she wore, and b) he apparently  _liked_  something that she wore. She was already making for the stairs when she stopped herself.

“Hang on, why am I changing?” she asked, already hating herself a little bit for her instinct to comply with his wishes.

Sherlock’s face broke into a smile.

“We’re taking Rosie out, of course.”

Molly folded her arms again, stepping away from the stairs.

“ _You_  offered to babysit,” she reminded him. “I have other plans for my day off.”

“Nnnnooo, you don’t,” he replied. “Therefore, I naturally assumed that you would jump at the opportunity to spend time with your brilliant and accomplished goddaughter.”

Molly’s gaze moved between the little girl who had captured her heart on arrival in the world five months ago, and the man who had dramatically abducted it so long ago it didn’t bear thinking about. She didn’t know which of them was harder to refuse. But it  _was_  a beautiful day outside, and she knew she would immediately feel like the world’s worst godmother if she dug her heels in just to prove some kind of point to Sherlock (or rather to herself _about_ Sherlock).

She took Rosie’s hand again, wiggling her little fingers and provoking a delighted shriek. When she glanced up at Sherlock, he was looking down at her with pursed lips, one eyebrow slightly raised; he  _knew_  that he’d got his way.

“Give me five minutes,” Molly told him. “But if it turns out that all this is because you want to avoid changing nappies, you’re on your own.”

 

00000000

 

It wasn’t about the nappies – that much eventually became clear as the morning wore on. Molly’s suspicions were first raised when Sherlock hailed a cab and told the driver to take them to Holland Park, all the way over the other side of central London. It was in the taxi that she also noticed his footwear – instead of his usual, highly-polished dress shoes, Sherlock was wearing a pair of trainers. They looked expensive - and box-fresh. In fact, she realised, everything he was wearing looked brand new.

“Why are we going to Holland Park?” she queried.

“It’s nice there,” he replied. “I thought we could take Rosie to the park; babies like fresh air – that’s a thing, apparently.”

“Okay, but there’s a park half a mile from my house,” she pointed out. “And also a pretty huge one down the road from your flat.”

He wouldn’t say anything further on the matter, and Molly continued her hopeless battle of not being horribly distracted by the spectacle of Sherlock with a baby in his arms.

The cab deposited them in an area that was completely unknown to Molly, with wide, tree-lined roads and the ludicrous ‘lifestyle’ boutiques where people pay thirty quid for a bunch of twigs. Sherlock apparently seemed certain of their destination and, shouldering Rosie’s changing bag, she followed him in the direction of a gated park in the middle of a square. Grand Georgian townhouses flanked the park on three sides, with black front doors that gleamed in the sunshine like patent leather, and frankly ridiculous cars parked outside.

“Reach into my pocket,” Sherlock said, as they were standing outside the gate.

“W-what?” Molly replied, certain she must have misheard.

He gave a small sigh.

“My trouser pocket - I can’t reach it because of this baby…contraption,” he explained. “I need to get something out of it.”

“Shall I just take Rosie out of the carrier?” Molly offered. It seemed altogether less likely to end in some kind of hideous embarrassment.

“Honestly, Molly, it’s really a very simple request,” Sherlock said, hitching Rosie up slightly so that she could get better access to his left hip pocket. “If it makes any difference, there’s a key in there.”

“Oh,” she replied, swallowing. “Okay.”

Vowing to get this over with as quickly as possible, she slid her fingers into the pocket in question; thankfully, she didn’t have to delve far before they made contact with said key. Sherlock seemed to flinch slightly at the contact, and as she gingerly withdrew her hand, Molly tried to ignore the warmth that had transferred from Sherlock’s thigh to the key – and, briefly, to her own fingertips.

“That’s, ah…” Sherlock said, as she handed him the key. “Thank you.”

For the briefest of moments, he looked slightly glazed.

Quickly recovering, he fitted the key to the lock in the gate and pushed it open, gesturing for Molly to go in front of him. Once they were both safely in the park, he swiftly locked the gate behind him.

“Can’t afford to let any old riff-raff in,” he said, with a smile.

Molly stared at him, as he and Rosie moved past her on the path.

“Sherlock, don’t you have to be a resident here to have a key?”

She was absolutely certain that in her jeans and cheery t-shirt, she was not going to pass for the wife of a Russian oligarch, or a minor member of the Saudi royal family.

“Nope,” he replied, waiting for her to catch up. “You just have to have a key. Where you acquire that key…well, that’s another matter.”

The small, private park was beautiful, with well-tended rose bushes and flower beds, and a spotless play area with a sandpit. They were not alone, and briefly attracted the attention of a small group of women – immaculately coiffed and manicured – who were sitting on some benches beside their designer prams. To Molly’s surprise, Sherlock gave them a small, cheerful wave before taking her hand and leading her to a bench of their own. There, he unclipped the harness of the baby carrier, lifted Rosie out and sat her on his knee, murmuring to her as he adjusted her sunhat.

Rosie looked so delighted to be free that Molly shook off that slight feeling of unreality and remembered why she wanted to come on this outing in the first place. She took Rosie across to the swings, securing her goddaughter on her knee and giving her a gentle swing; although Sherlock had pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes, she could tell his gaze was moving between her and the other users of the park. Eventually, she returned to the bench, intending to give Rosie some milk, but when she stopped digging around in the changing bag and shuffled back on the seat, she felt her back come into contact with something. It turned out to be Sherlock’s arm – and he made no attempt to move it. 

This was all becoming a little  _too_  uncanny.

“I…I brought some snacks,” she said, deciding that the best approach to the wandering arm was to ignore it. “If you’ll hold her for a sec, I’ll get them out.”

Sherlock quickly shook his head.

“Thank you,” he replied, distractedly. “Not eating today.”

And that was where her confirmation came from.

Immediately, Molly’s mind flashed back several years to the canteen at Bart’s, standing in the queue and deliberating over the pasta and the pork.  _Digestion slows me down._ Yes, it was unscientific bollocks, but she knew what it meant.

“You’re working,” Molly said, forcing herself to look at him.

Sherlock flipped up his sunglasses momentarily, long enough to look at her sideways. Molly didn’t know what she was expecting, but there was no obvious sign of guilt or remorse in his expression.

“Yes, of course I’m working,” he replied, slowly. “Why else would I be risking the possibility of Rosie socialising with the offspring of such odious human beings?”

Molly sighed.

“So the jeans, the brand-new trainers, all of… _this_ ,” she said, wearily. “You’re essentially undercover right now?”

“Essentially,” he nodded. “As are you.”

Molly snorted.

“Um, no, I’m not,” she replied. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m here to spend time with Rosie and enjoy the sunshine.”

“Yes. And you’re doing both of those things. But for the purpose of the conversation that is about to take place, you’re also something else.”

There was no time to quiz him any further, because when Molly looked up, she saw that one of the women from the other bench was approaching. She was in languorous pursuit of a toddler with a mop of blond hair and a designer t-shirt that must have cost more than Molly’s entire outfit.

“I’m so sorry about Hugo,” the woman drawled, not sounding in the least bit sorry, as the little boy grabbed hold of the bench. “He always gets very excited when he sees new people here.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied.

His breezy tone was surprise enough, but Molly had barely got over that when she felt Sherlock’s hand come to rest on her shoulder, his thumb lazily stroking her clavicle through her t-shirt.  _Oh, she was going to get him for this later._

“Your little girl is  _adorable_ ,” the woman continued with the least convincing smile Molly had ever seen, even taking into constraints of Botox. “What’s her name?”

Molly opened her mouth, but Sherlock beat her to it.

“Allegra,” he replied, without pause.

_Allegra?_

With her milk-stained M&S romper suit, Rosie Watson was hardly a very convincing Allegra.

“Oh, that’s darling,” the woman replied. “And I think my little boy might be right – I don’t think we  _have_  seen you in here before…?”

As though from a script, Sherlock began to spin a story about them being new to the neighbourhood, renting while they got a feel for the area.

“It’s time we put down roots, isn’t it, darling?” he added. “But that’s easier said than done with my fiancée’s line of work; she’s in fashion, so you understand how it is.”

He moved his arm from her shoulder so that he could take her hand instead.

Molly’s jaw tightened; the only upside to this situation would be the look on Sherlock’s face when she told him that he was never, ever, not-in-a-million-years, getting further access to body parts from the morgue.

“Oh?” the woman replied. “Really?”

She was looking Molly up and down with an expression that was definitely dubious. Molly managed a small nod, hating herself for playing along.

“Several of my friends are in the industry,” she continued. “Which fashion house do you work for?”

“I…”

“She works in more of a consulting capacity,” Sherlock cut in. “Anyway, she jets all over the world so much, it’s a wonder that we managed to get this one in the oven – isn’t that right, darling?”

He gave a very un-Sherlock-like chuckle, and Molly couldn’t resist giving his thumb a sharp pinch – although it seemed to do nothing to put him off his stride.

“So, anyway, I’m doing the whole parental leave thing, and I’m absolutely loving it,” he continued. “Completely besotted, having the time of my life. In fact, I’m trying to persuade her that we need to get started on another one fairly soon.”

Molly felt her face explode in a horrifyingly warm blush, and Rosie’s bottle nearly slipped from her hand. 

“Well, it’s a fantastic area,” the woman said with a shrug. “Great restaurants, lots of little one-off boutiques - and the competition for prep-schools is reassuringly savage.”

“What about nurseries?” Sherlock asked. “We’ll need to start looking around for Allegra.”

Molly cringed at the repetition of Rosie’s ridiculous undercover pseudonym.

“ _Very_  long waiting lists for the best day nurseries,” the woman replied, picking an invisible fleck of something from her son’s hair. “But, of course, there  _are_  a number of ways to jump the queue – I’m sure you understand.”

Sherlock gave a conspiratorial chuckle.

“Naturally,” he replied, smiling.

Still holding Molly’s hand, he dug into Rosie’s baby carrier and produced a pen and paper.

“I, ah, I don’t suppose you could write down a few names for me?” he asked. “The nurseries you’d recommend, obviously, but any names it would be…useful for us to know. If it isn’t too much trouble?”

The woman looked uncertain for a moment, but eventually took the paper and pen from Sherlock’s hand, returning it to him thirty seconds later with some scribbled notes. Sherlock thanked her with an ingratiating smile, folding and pocketing the note.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I have to get Hugo to our hot yoga class.”

As soon as the coast was clear, Molly watched as Sherlock dug out his phone and flicked to the photo gallery, pulling up and zooming in on an image of an envelope.

“Same handwriting,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “Almost too easy.”

Molly sighed.

“You, um, you can let go of my hand now.”

“Hm?” Sherlock replied, releasing her hand, but keeping his eyes on his phone. “Oh. Yes. Sorry about that. Over-improvised in the moment without fully thinking through the consequences – just seemed…more appropriate.”

“’Over-improvised’?” she queried, replacing the top on Rosie’s bottle and shifting her goddaughter onto her shoulder.

“No engagement ring,” he muttered.

She didn’t know what to say to that, but was getting the distinct feeling that if she wanted to salvage any of her day off – not to mention her pride – it was time to take decisive action. Giving Rosie a kiss, she got to her feet and placed the little girl on Sherlock’s lap. Immediately, he looked up at her, questioningly.

“She’ll need to be changed pretty soon, and make sure you keep her sunhat on,” Molly told him, setting off in the direction of the gate before he was able to reply.

Within seconds, Sherlock had caught up to her, Rosie in one arm and the changing bag and carrier tangled around the other. The whole scene would have been slightly comic if she wasn’t so bloody exasperated with him.

“Molly?”

When she turned to face him, there was a moment when he looked genuinely confused.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’m not going to blow your cover,” she sighed.

He arched an eyebrow.

“Blow my what?”

Molly fired him a look – he was picking now,  _this moment_ , to flirt with her?

“In case you haven’t already deduced it, I’m going home, Sherlock,” she told him. “I’m glad you got what you needed, I hope it was for a good cause, but – and I can’t believe I actually have to say this – I really have no interest in being your beard again in the future.”

She set off again, but Sherlock caught her arm. Rosie started to whimper, probably sensing the disquiet between her godparents, and Molly couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt, despite herself.

“It  _was_  for a good cause,” Sherlock replied. “I’ve been following a trail on and off for weeks, and today has provided me with a key piece of the puzzle.”

“Fine. But why did you have to involve me? Why couldn’t you…I don’t know, just be a dad doing the childcare? That  _is_  a thing that some men do. Or if you really, genuinely needed my help, why didn’t you just ask? I might actually have said yes. But I’m tired of being lied to, Sherlock, and I don’t like you using Rosie as some kind of bait.”

She watched the expression on his face change; saw him swallow, blink. One of his hands had seemed to automatically start rubbing soothing circles on Rosie’s back.

He cleared his throat.

“Molly, you are not my ‘beard’, or stooge, or whatever other insulting thing you might think,” he began slowly. “I wanted you to come with me as my partner.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“Partnership implies equality, Sherlock,” she sighed. “Not one person playing the other one for an idiot.”

“That’s not what I was doing!” he said, an undercurrent of hurt in his voice that he  _definitely_  hadn’t earned. “I…I wanted you to come with me today because…because, with you, I am believable as an ordinary man.”

“Oh,” Molly replied. “Thanks a bunch.”

He shook his head, annoyed more with himself than with her.

“No, I mean it as a compliment,” he continued quickly. “You’re the only person I know who can do that, Molly. And also…I have it on good authority that we are convincing. That this -” – he waved his hand between the two of them – “is convincing.”

Molly blinked at him, her mouth suddenly feeling dry.

“Who-? What good authority?”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Well, for a start, there were the seven people at Rosie’s christening who assumed you were my wife – eight if you include the vicar,” he replied. “Although I suspect he was touting for further business.”

“For a start?” Molly prompted, her voice suddenly coming out higher than expected.

“Yes,” he replied, pulling his lips together.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“There were others?”

“Possibly.”

“Who?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Really, Molly, why on earth does that matter? The weight of evidence-”

“Sherlock, if you don’t tell me, I’m going to take out my phone right now and tell Mary the real reason why you were so keen to babysit today,” she told him.  

Sherlock licked his lips, stalling.

"If I tell you, will you stay?"

Molly folded her arms across her chest.

" _If_ you tell me _and_ you can guarantee that Rosie isn't going to be in any danger...then I'll think about it."

Sherlock cleared his throat, his gaze flicking to a point somewhere above her head.

"In which case, were you to take out your phone and call the aforementioned person, then…you may not be entirely on the wrong track."

Molly took in this information. 

Mary. Mary had said it. Immediately, Molly found her mind surging with questions about the exact words their friend had used, the context of those words, and what she even meant by saying them in the first place. 

But she knew that Sherlock would never supply this information, and her sense of self-preservation was too strong to seek it from Mary. Instead, she would fold up that information - like Sherlock with his handwriting sample - tuck it away, and revisit it on those occasions when she really needed it. It was silly, but sometimes she just needed something small like that.

"Okay," she said finally, nodding. "I'll stay and help you. But one more condition."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, waiting for it.

"I get to pick my undercover name," she told him, feeling the beginnings of a ridiculous grin starting to form.

"Fine."

"And..."

"And?!" he asked, incredulously.

"I get to pick yours too."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, as though considering whether this was now more trouble than it was worth. But Molly could see he was acquiescing.

They made their way to the park gate, and Molly stopped.

"Just out of interest, Molly," Sherlock began. "What were you going to do when you reached the gate and remembered it was locked? Tunnel under the hedge using your Oyster card? Ask one of those women for a boost over the railings?"

He seemed to be recovering some of his swagger, which, considering he was supposed to be in mild disgrace, was unacceptable to Molly. 

“Then?” she mused, doing her best to withhold a grin. “Then I would _definitely_ have had to blow your cover, Sherlock. As publicly as possible.”

A quick, darting look at Sherlock at that moment made the whole fiasco worthwhile – the tips of his ears were a delightful shade of pink, and Molly was fairly sure she was getting her first direct experience of what John called Sherlock's 'buffering' mode. Well, well. 

“Come on, Rosie,” Molly said, taking the baby out of Sherlock’s arms. “I think your Uncle Sherlock might need a minute. Then we’ll go and make him buy us some lunch.”

 

THE END


	2. Danger Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s a bit of an abrupt change of tone with this one – buckle up for some angst…(sorry!)

The moment she put down the phone, she was at an utter loss as to what to do. People always talked about a numbness, a complete mental blankness that takes hold, and it had closed in on Molly immediately. She took a deep, slow breath, and then another one. The silence of the Watsons’ flat was almost unbearable.

Although there was no conscious thought involved, she found herself in the doorway of Rosie’s bedroom. She had left the door ajar, and now silently slipped inside the room, which was dimly-lit by a moon-shaped nightlight. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to be there, but it seemed like the only thing she  _could_  do. Until someone told her that it was a mistake, or until she woke from this nightmare.

Five minutes earlier, her mobile had rung with an unknown number. A woman she didn’t know asked Molly to confirm who she was, and when Molly demanded to know who she was talking to, there was a brief pause - and then suddenly she was speaking to Mycroft Holmes himself. On hearing his voice, Molly had immediately been seized by a cold spike of fear that something had happened to Sherlock. Her only communications with Sherlock’s brother had been during times of extreme crisis, and Molly was always surprised that he even remembered her name. What Mycroft had then said to her refused at first to sink in; it was as though she could only understand snatches, couldn’t make sense of the words as a whole.

_Incident – suspect – confrontation - underestimated – misjudged – target - fatally injured_

And the word that certainly didn’t belong in that context:  _Mary_.

It seemed stupid now, but she had actually asked Mycroft whether he was sure. His response had been surprisingly gentle – compassionate almost. Molly could tell by his tone that despite his clipped, spare words, he was shaken. And before she could open her mouth, he had anticipated her next question, reassuring her that Sherlock was physically unharmed. The second emotion she felt – sheer guilt – was in direct response to the first: relief that he was alive.

Molly watched Rosie through the bars of her cot, the little girl’s knees raised up inside her sleeping bag, her arms thrown back above her head. While Rosie slept, everything had changed. And there would come a point where she would wake up and they would have to start living with that reality. 

And it was coming soon. Mycroft had told her to stay where she was (where else would she go?) and to wait. For what, he hadn’t given her the chance to ask. John would return home at some point, Molly realised, and she had immediately tried to think of ways to prepare for this – what could she do that would be helpful? What could she even begin to say to him?

Molly leaned in closer, far enough to reach through the bars of the cot and gently enfold her hand around Rosie’s. She stroked the impossibly-soft, dimpled knuckles with the pad of her finger. She felt the first prick of tears at the back of her eyes, but tightened her jaw and forced them back.

There was a sharp rap at the door, making her jump.

Her gaze flew to Rosie, but the little girl hadn’t been disturbed. Quickly, carefully, Molly slipped out of the room again, closing the nursery door behind her; although a feeble gesture, she felt the desperate need to protect her goddaughter in any small way she could.

When she opened the front door, Mycroft was standing there. She could see the legs of dark, suited figures on the pavement above the basement flat, standing sentry in the rain by a long, black car.

“Dr **.** Hooper,” Mycroft began, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “I must ask you to collect whatever you need and bring the Watsons’ daughter with you. We will escort you home.”

“What?”

Molly hadn’t meant to say it, but such was her confusion – what she was  _not_  expecting to hear – that it slipped out. She shook her head, recovering herself.

“Rosie’s asleep,” she said, “I-if John isn’t coming home, I can stay here with her tonight.”

She **saw** Mycroft draw his lips together.

“Dr. Hooper-”

“Will you-” Molly cut in sharply, surprising herself again. “Will you please call me Molly.”

He gave a small nod.

“Molly, while I’m not certain when John will return, I do not believe that when he does he will be in any fit state to take care of his child. It would be for the best if she stayed with you for such time as necessary.”

Molly shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself to somehow try to shore herself up.

“But he’ll – he’ll surely want to see her?” she argued. “I can’t – I can’t just take her.”

“It’s what John requested,” Mycroft replied.

Molly took in those words, finding them – and the motivation behind them – difficult to comprehend. She accepted that she couldn’t possibly understand what John was going through; Molly had known loss, but the slow, drawn-out kind, where – for better or worse – you start to come to terms with the bereavement before it’s even happened. Not the kind of loss where someone is ripped from you violently and without warning. But all the same, Molly felt certain that the one thing – the only thing – that would make sense to  _her_  would be to be with Rosie. But then, she strongly suspected that she hadn’t been told the full story.

Mycroft was speaking again, but she only caught the latter part of the sentence.

“…do you require any assistance to collect together the necessary-?”

“No. But I’ll need a little while,” she told him. “I’ll - I’ll have to wake her, get her ready, find everything…”

Mycroft nodded, and as he stepped back and the light from the streetlamp caught his face, Molly could see the effect that the evening had had on him. He started to head back up the steps to the street, and Molly had half closed the door when she stopped, realising that something had been overlooked in the conversation.

“Is…is Sherlock with him?” she called.

Mycroft paused, turned, and took the two steps down to the basement level again.

“My brother is…not a person that John Watson would wish to see at this present time,” he said, carefully.

“Because of what Mary did,” Molly nodded. He had given her the bare bones of the evening’s horrific events by phone earlier on, and while her mind was automatically leaping to Sherlock’s defence, she understood that grief could easily lead to misplaced anger.

Mycroft gave another, barely perceptible nod.

“It is best for both of them that Sherlock remains out of sight and out of contact,” he said. “He’s waiting in the car.”

This, Molly did not expect. She immediately looked up at the anonymous black car, craned for a view above the wheels – but of course the darkly tinted windows prevented her from seeing any occupants. But knowing Sherlock was in there added further urgency to her actions.

Back inside the flat, she tried to focus her mind, prevent her thoughts being drawn away from the practical task in front of her. Right now, this was what mattered; everything else had to be forced aside.

She couldn’t bring herself to look through her friends’ bedroom for a suitcase or travel bag, instead going through Rosie’s drawers as quietly as possible and shoving an assortment of tiny clothes and disposable nappies into two large carrier bags. Stowing them by the front door with the changing bag, she gathered up all of the bottles, the steriliser and as many cartons of ready-mix baby milk that would fit in her duffel bag. She started to look around the living room for other vital things she might be missing, suddenly gripped by a feeling of total uselessness and a realisation that short stints of babysitting had done nothing to prepare her for this. That when it came down to it, she actually had no bloody idea what a baby really needed.

Eventually, she couldn’t put it off any longer. Whispering repeated reassurances and apologies, Molly lifted the warm bundle out of the cot, pulling Rosie close to her body, feeling the little girl’s head twist restlessly from side to side as her distress started to build. By the time Molly had transferred Rosie from her sleeping bag to her snowsuit, her goddaughter was in full-blown tears. She struggled and writhed as Molly fumbled with the buckles on the car seat and pulled a knitted hat down over her head, desperately unhappy with what was happening to her. Molly tried to soothe her, repeatedly telling her that it was okay, all the while hating herself for how far it was from the truth.

Two of Mycroft’s people appeared at the door and transported all of the baggage to the boot of the car. Molly followed behind carrying the car seat, Rosie’s cries increasing at the indignation of the cold night air. Mycroft appeared again, hovering while his driver opened the car door for Molly. She caught the briefest glimpse of Sherlock’s figure at the far side of the car, his hands clasped tightly together in front of him, his head turned away.

It was only once she manoeuvred Rosie into the car that Molly remembered that she’d never done this before **,** and now, fitting a baby seat safely into the back of the car seemed like a Sisyphean task, and one she didn’t currently have the clarity of thought for. She could sense the driver behind her.

“I’m sorry, I just need to…” she began, suddenly feeling embarrassed and inadequate as tears started to build. “I need to work out…”

She twisted and adjusted the seat in the dim light of the car, yanking and wrestling with the seat belt, trying to block out Rosie’s continued protests. Sherlock, she couldn’t help noticing, wouldn’t even look at her – look at either of them.

Eventually, one of the men in Mycroft’s detail stepped in beside her, silently offering to take over. Molly watched him, trying to memorise the process while hoping that it wouldn’t be necessary. She wanted to sit as close to Rosie as possible, which meant climbing over her seat and sitting in between her and Sherlock. He still kept his eyes on the window, working his jaw in silence. Mycroft climbed into the seat opposite his brother, and signaled that they were ready to leave.

Molly continued to try to reassure Rosie, self-conscious about her goddaughter’s entirely justified distress. Every so often, she would risk a glance at Sherlock, and noticed the whiteness of his clenched knuckles and the rise and fall of his chest. He was struggling, she could see it.

“We’ll go via Baker Street first,” Mycroft said suddenly, apparently mostly addressing her.

“Are…are you staying with Sherlock?” Molly asked, feeling strange that she was talking about him almost like he was a child.

“Unfortunately, my night’s work has barely begun,” Mycroft replied, grimly. “I must make myself available to answer the unavoidable questions, to oversee the commencement of an… investigation. But Sherlock won’t be alone.”

She was about to query what he meant by that when she realised Mycroft was talking about his ‘people’; that Sherlock might not be alone, but only in a very literal sense.

“He can come with Rosie and me,” Molly heard herself saying.

At this, she saw Sherlock turn his head slightly, little more than a flinch.

“You… you can come back to mine,” she added, unable to pretend any longer that he wasn’t right there.

He shifted in his seat, slowly turned to face her with a look of confusion tinged with what looked like irritation. Molly made herself hold his gaze; she wouldn’t stand for an argument over this, and she wouldn’t be cowed.  And after a couple of long moments, Sherlock seemed to back down, turning away once more. Molly let out a breath, gently resting a hand on Rosie’s body as she whimpered, more softly now, as though she too was giving in.

“If you’re certain you can manage,” Mycroft said, sounding faintly dubious.

Sherlock gave a short, sharp choke of laughter. Mycroft eyed him with a sad sort of exasperation.

Truth be told, Molly wasn’t certain she  _could_  manage, but she knew she wanted to – had to - try all the same. What was the alternative? She knew Sherlock well enough to understand that sometimes he was his own worst company; that solitude and the space to think were a dangerous concoction. And if ever there was a Danger Night, this was surely it.

Molly nodded.

“As you wish,” Mycroft replied, before turning to his driver with the new instructions. It sounded very much like  _it’s your funeral_.

00000000000

Rosie was asleep again when they arrived, and stayed so while she was carried into Molly’s house and set down in the darkened living room. Mycroft’s people deposited their cargo in the middle of her hallway, leaving Sherlock to trail into the house behind Molly like a sad spectre. Mycroft lingered by the front door for a moment, Molly sensing his innate uncertainty at the arrangements.

“You have my direct number,” he said to Molly, speaking past his brother. “Don’t hesitate to use it.”

He turned to Sherlock.

“Eat something,” he said.

Sherlock gave another sarcastic snort of laughter.

“That’s your solution to everything,” he replied.

Ignoring his brother, and saying he would be in touch in the morning, Mycroft took his leave – and suddenly, it was just the two of them, alone with the huge unspoken horror that Molly couldn’t bring herself to address at that moment. If Sherlock wanted to leave, there was nothing she could reasonably do to stop him – all she could do was find reasons for him to stay.

At that moment, there was a whimper from the darkness of the living room.

“We need to put Rosie to bed,” she said.

Sherlock looked at her with that same confusion from the car.

“We need to try to get her settled,” she added quickly. “I’ll have to set up the travel cot in the bedroom, so…so could you get her out of her snowsuit, please?”

“What?” Sherlock said, gruffly.

“She’s crying,” Molly replied, plainly, trying to muster up the courage she needed. “And she’s probably hot, too, so you’ll need to take her snowsuit off and…and then just hold her.”

“Molly, I…”

“Just…just hold her, Sherlock,” she said, not allowing him to finish. “Just until I’ve finished with the cot.”

He stared at her, pleading with his eyes, but before she could change her mind, before she could give in, Molly turned – still wearing her coat – and made her way up the stairs. One of two things would happen now, and she was fully expecting to hear the front door close and Rosie’s cries to turn to screams when she realised she’d been abandoned in the darkness of a house she barely knew. As she wrestled with the travel cot in the awkward space between the end of her bed and the bookcase, she desperately hoped for the alternative outcome.

Rosie’s screaming abruptly stopped. There was a pause, and Molly listened. The crying resumed again, but this time it wasn’t quite so anguished; it was clear that Rosie no longer felt quite so afraid, and was now just expressing her tiredness and upset. She recognised the person she was with.

When she returned to the living room, Molly found that Sherlock had removed his coat and was pacing the room with Rosie crying against his shoulder. She was whining, burying her face in his jacket, and Sherlock looked like a man being tested beyond his limits. Molly could see that he was fighting his own instincts to run or to blurt out how much he hated what was being asked of him – and Rosie was the only reason he wasn’t doing either. Which was exactly why, Molly reminded herself, she was doing this.

She crossed the room to Sherlock, who was stroking Rosie’s hair as he continued to hold her with a helpless expression on his face. There was a moment when his eyes met Molly’s, and she had no choice but to look away – ordinarily, the sight of Sherlock with Rosie was one of her great (and sometimes guilty) pleasures, but now, with the emotion, the desperation in his eyes, she knew it would devastate her. And she had to make sure they all made it through this night, even if she couldn’t yet think beyond it.  

“Some milk might help settle her,” she said, turning to leave.

“Molly, I know what you’re trying to do,” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. “I know you mean well, but-”

She stopped.

“I don’t have any better ideas, Sherlock,” she replied, with a sigh. “This is what I’ve got, so this is what I’m going with. I…I can do it myself, but I would…it would be better for all of us if you’d help me.”

He followed her through to the kitchen, hovering with Rosie while Molly sterilised a bottle in the microwave and opened one of the cartons of formula. She took a mixing bowl from her cupboard and filled it from the tap.

“It has to be warm enough to heat the bottle,” she explained. “But cool enough to put your hand in it.”

She wasn’t sure he was listening, but it wasn’t going to stop her talking – and Sherlock needed to know this stuff, too, now more than ever.

“We can change her while we’re waiting,” she continued. “I’ll get the bag from the hallway.”

Once Rosie was lying on the changing mat in the living room, Molly handed Sherlock the things he needed. Again, he looked at her with mild disbelief, challenging her as to whether she was  _really_  doing this, but Molly dug in. Doggedly, she walked him through the process of undressing Rosie and changing her nappy. Occasionally, she would allow her gaze to leave Rosie and shift to Sherlock’s face; he was wound tight, his eyes squeezing shut every so often as if to gather himself.

Molly brought the warmed milk through from the kitchen, tested it on the back of her hand before handing the bottle to Sherlock. Again, he threw her a look.

“Like this,” she told him, adjusting his hold on Rosie so that she was reclining in the crook of his elbow.

Rosie fretted, fussed, squirmed in his arms. After a minute or two of attempting to get her to accept the bottle, Sherlock sprang up from the sofa; he held both the bottle and their goddaughter out to Molly.

“She needs  _you_ , she doesn’t need me,” he spat.

“That’s not true,” Molly replied, shaking her head.

“Really? After what happened tonight?” he challenged, his eyes wide.

“ _Especially_  because of what happened tonight, Sherlock,” she told him. “When has it been more important that Rosie has godparents? I know this is probably not what either of us thought we were signing up for, but we owe it to Rosie. And to John...and to Mary.”

She swallowed. He was pacing again, but like a cornered animal now.

“All this…it’s unfamiliar to Rosie,” she continued. “And she can probably tell that we’re…that you’re-”

“You want me to pretend, Molly, is that what you want?” Sherlock fired back. “We’re not having a nice little sleepover; that’s not what’s happening here. I  _can’t_  pretend - not now, not with this!”

Rosie started to cry again, shaking her head free of the bottle. Molly put her to her shoulder, rubbed circles into her back. Sherlock looked slightly chastened, she noticed, but he said nothing.

“Okay, fine,” she said, crisply. “Then why don’t you make some tea?”

Sherlock flicked a look at her, as though she might be joking.

“I don’t want any tea,” he said eventually.

Molly closed her eyes, pressing her lips to Rosie’s hair.

“Just…please…just make some anyway.”

 

00000000000

A short while later, Molly had successfully transferred a sleeping Rosie from her arms and into the travel cot. She found Sherlock back in the living room, sitting in the darkness, his elbows braced on his knees. A pot of tea sat on the coffee table with a mug and a carton of milk; he’d done as asked, and no more.

“Do you want anything to eat?” she asked quietly.

He closed his eyes, shook his head softly, as though the question was completely inane.

“I’m not hungry either,” Molly said. “I don’t know…maybe later…it’s probably-”

“Molly, why do you even want me here?” Sherlock said, sitting up suddenly. “How can you stand for me to be here in your home? Did my dear brother gloss over the details of what happened tonight?”

Molly looked at him, set her hands in her lap.

“I know what happened, Sherlock,” she replied.

“Then you’ll know it’s my fault,” he retorted, springing to his feet. “That Mary is…that she’s dead because of me. Molly, on top of what I’ve done to John and to Rosie, I’ve taken away your friend, someone you cared about. Don’t you understand? If you care about Rosie – if you care about John – you should want me as far away from you as possible.”

“Mycroft said that Mary stepped in front of the path of the gun,” Molly replied. “That she...that she did it deliberately, that she knew what she was doing. That it was…a choice.”

She couldn’t think too closely about that at the moment, for fear it would stir up questions that defied an answer, detract from what was in front of her right now.

“But did he tell you what led to that?” Sherlock went on. “How proud I was of my deductions? How  _confident_  I was in my judgement of the situation, that it was all within my control? I underestimated the enemy, and I overestimated my own abilities, and that –  _that_  got Mary killed, Molly. If you’re picking sides, Molly, you’ve chosen the wrong one.”

Molly took this in, watching as Sherlock bit down on his lip, ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Right there, she wanted to take him in her arms – as was so easy with Rosie – but she knew he would flinch from it, that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, accept it.

“Look, I…,” she began, taking a breath to consider her next words. “I know that there are things about Mary that I don’t know, things from her past – and…and I came to accept that. She was my friend, regardless. But she loved what you do, you and John, and I know that nothing could keep her from where the action was – not…not even Rosie – and tonight, what she did…I know she must have had her reasons, even if it doesn’t make sense to me.”

Slowly, she got to her feet, took a step closer to him.

“And you want to know why I want you here?” she continued. “Because we should all be on the same side. You didn’t want any of this to happen, you’re not to blame, and I’m…I’m  _your_  friend, too – and you shouldn’t have to be alone. You  _shouldn’t_  be alone.”

He was looking at her, regarding her curiously, as though he couldn’t quite get a hold on what she’d said. Molly took another small step towards him, closing the distance; she held Sherlock’s gaze, started to lift her hand to reach for his when the silence was shattered by a wail from the bedroom.

Immediately, he looked away with a wince of pain. She was loath to leave him like that, but knew she didn’t have a choice. By the time Molly reached Rosie, she was howling, her limbs rigid in her distress, her eyes screwed shut. Molly scooped her up, started to sway with her, smoothing her fingers repeatedly over Rosie’s sweat-damp hair. But as she was doing so, she sensed something else. Still holding Rosie, Molly reached the top of the stairs just in time to see Sherlock pulling on his coat and heading for the front door.

“Sherlock, wait!”

He stopped, but didn’t turn. Rosie continued her barrage of cries, and Molly felt caught between a rock and a hard place.

“I’m sorry, Molly, but I can’t…I can’t stay here,” he said.

Holding Rosie tightly, she covered the distance between them as quickly as possible; he was like a coiled spring, ready to bolt at a second’s notice.

“Sherlock, I know what you’re thinking about right now,” she said, feeling the words catch in her throat, rocking Rosie. “I know what it is you want to do, and I know it would be easy and it would stop you feeling…any of this, and the pain would go away – I  _know_  that. I don’t want to feel this pain either, Sherlock. I don’t want to be here, not like this. This is hell, and it hurts, and I don’t have the answers. I’ve no idea –  _no_  idea – how we’re going to cope with tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day.”

Sherlock faced away from her, swiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. Molly felt her heart contract at the thought that he wanted, perhaps felt the need to, hide his grief from her.

“But I made a promise, Sherlock,” she continued, her voice cracking under the weight of them. “I stood in that living room just after Rosie was born, and I stood at the front of that church, and I made a promise to Mary and John and…and you did, too.”

Molly blinked through her tears.

“I know…I know that means something to you,” she added, her breath hitching. “If I have to do this alone Sherlock, I will, I can, but...”

She’d managed to get those last few words out before the last of her resolve left her, and her whole body began to shake. Struggling to control her breathing, Molly held Rosie close, closing her eyes and pressing her lips the little girl’s crown. Her shoulders heaved, and the tears fell, raw pain finally pushing through that shock and numbness.

To Molly’s surprise, she suddenly felt a hand on her elbow; tentative fingers folded around her arm, and she gave in to instinct, willingly letting Sherlock draw both her and Rosie to him. She buried her face in his shirtfront, unable to stem the tide of tears, feeling his hand come up to cradle the back of her head.  Slowly, his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, completing the circuit. A moment later Sherlock’s body started to shudder, his grip on her shoulders suddenly tightening, and Molly realised that he was finally, quietly losing his own battle. Little gasps and ragged puffs of breath escaped him, and Molly slid her arm out from between them to wrap around his waist, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat.

Eventually, Molly brought her hand up to Sherlock’s arm, gently tugging it downwards until she could take his hand in hers. They exchanged looks for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Molly to know that he wasn’t about to take flight. Slowly, hand in hand, they walked upstairs to her bedroom, where Molly carefully lay a drowsing Rosie on the top of the duvet, carefully lying down beside her. Wordlessly, Sherlock removed his coat and his jacket, toeing out of his shoes before climbing onto the bed facing Molly, so that their goddaughter was lying between them. Molly gently enclosed Rosie’s tiny fist in her own hand. The last thing she remembered seeing before the exhaustion took her was Sherlock, eyes closed in an expression between anguish and tenderness, placing a kiss on Rosie’s head.

She woke again when the weight of the mattress shifted, realising with a stab of panic that Rosie wasn’t beside her – and neither was Sherlock. But then he came into view, leaning over the bed, barely more than a silhouette in her darkened room

“I put her in the cot,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I thought it would be best.”

Through the lingering cobwebs of sleep, Molly nodded, unsure whether she could even see her response. She was wondering whether she had interrupted his quiet attempt to leave, when instead Sherlock drew back the bedcover, waiting for Molly to slip underneath it before getting in beside her. He edged his way closer until she could feel the warmth from his body, and she gave a sharp intake of breath when he took her face in his hands, tilting it upwards and bringing his lips to her forehead. He lingered there for a few seconds before pulling away, and when Molly sought his gaze in the darkness for a clue to how he was feeling, what he was thinking, they regarded each other for a long moment.

“Sherlock…”

With a deep sigh, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. Molly felt his breath, warm on her skin, and heard it when those steady breaths began to sound more laboured and uneven. He was doing everything he could to repress it all.

Slowly, Molly brought her hand up to his face, taken by surprise when Sherlock immediately clutched it there; there was a desperation about his actions, as though he needed to be anchored to something. She understood that need completely. Keeping her movements slow, giving him the opportunity to stop her, Molly shifted in the bed and brought his face to rest in the crook of her neck, winding her fingers into the tangle of curls at the back of his head. Sherlock didn’t resist, nudging closer until he could sling his leg over hers, locking them together. She couldn’t deny that his proximity, the physical closeness, was causing her heart to pound, but she felt the tide of fatigue rising again and closed her eyes, seeking out Sherlock’s hand, twining it with hers.  

It could be minutes, or it could be hours, but Molly knew that when she next woke, he would be gone. But he had stayed this long, and that meant something. Listening to the soft, whistling breaths from the cot, she turned her lips into Sherlock’s hair, clasped his hand tighter, and surrendered to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are happier times ahead…honest! :-)


	3. Healing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confined to 221B during his recovery, and unable to finish his latest composition, Sherlock receives some visitors...

Sherlock performed another slow circuit of the living room, tapping his violin bow against his leg as he walked. He had got only so far with this composition, and had run into a wall, so to speak – he just couldn’t make the next part flow as it should. Movement, using footsteps and beats as the notes and rests, usually worked, but it felt like a fast-flowing river that suddenly trickled into nothing. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising – his mental faculties weren’t exactly in the sharpest of conditions.

Even by his standards, withdrawal and recovery had been brutal, and even now, with his physical strength, ability to sleep and normal functions gradually returning, he still felt hollowed-out and sluggish. Hard drugs were very possibly a younger man’s game. That glib thought hadn’t failed to escape him as he’d marked his fortieth birthday with a black eye, a spit lip, and absolutely zero appetite for the ludicrously-decorated cupcakes that had been foisted on him.

Over the years, a varied cast of family members and medical professionals (sometimes, but not always, in collusion with each other) had tried to offer compelling reasons for him to clean up his act. None of those reasons ever seemed particularly compelling, and Sherlock had never made promises, either to others or to himself – the distinct advantage of this was that he never felt particularly guilt-ridden when he succumbed once again to the creeping itch. He had laid the blame on the world around him for being so unbearably tedious _so_ much of the time.

There had been no promises made this time either, not out loud at any rate, but everything - his state of mind, his sense of resolve – told him that it  _was_  different. He meant it; he was done.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with impending middle-age. When he’d sat there in the cake place, watching Molly smile as she posted small pieces of vanilla sponge into Rosie’s waiting mouth, it felt like a conspiracy. No family intervention, no expensive rehab facility, no drugs raid on his flat could ever achieve this result – but Sherlock had a horrible feeling that where they failed,  _sentiment_  might be playing a more successful hand. 

The past couple of weeks had done nothing to challenge this theory - and indeed here he was, deliberately pacing a route around the living room that would take him past the front window.  

When a cab eventually stopped outside 221, Sherlock paused long enough to ascertain that it  _was_  Molly, before quickly arranging himself in his chair and turning his attention to the tuning pegs on his violin.

As Molly came up the stairs, Sherlock detected that her footfall sounded louder than normal, suggesting that she was carrying something – her duffel bag, presumably? She had stayed overnight on six separate occasions during the past fortnight (not that he was keeping a tally), at John’s insistence that he have twenty-four-hour, live-in supervision in case he was once again tempted by the ‘sweeties’. Sherlock had grudgingly accepted this, assuming that it would be about as pleasant as house arrest, but it had been surprisingly easy to adjust. Well, to some guests more than others.

It was only when he could hear Molly speaking softly in the hallway that he realised what it was she was carrying.

“Hi!” Molly said brightly, pushing the door open.

She was still in what constituted work clothes for Molly, tan trousers and her cherry-patterned cardigan. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, her cheeks slightly pink with the effort of toting a large baby with her petite frame. Sherlock swallowed, momentarily disturbed by a flash of… something that came over him.

“I wasn’t aware that you had Rosie today, Molly,” he said, placing his violin on the coffee table and rising from his chair. “You needn’t have come so early.”

“That’s okay,” Molly smiled, adjusting her hold on Rosie and pushing a stray strand of hair off her forehead. “I was on an early shift, and John texted to ask whether I could take her for a couple of hours until he gets back from work. I thought he could just as easily collect her from here. If… that’s okay?”

She removed the knitted hat from Rosie’s head.

“Plus, she gets to see Uncle Sherlock, and that’s pretty exciting, isn’t it, Rosie?”

Molly took Rosie’s hand, encouraging her to give him a wave. The little girl’s face spread into a beam, and Sherlock took a couple of steps towards her so that he could touch his fingertips to her hair, which had noticeably grown since he last saw her.

That occasion had been his birthday; although John had offered to bring her around to see him since, Sherlock had declined, suggesting – only half-jokingly – that the ghastly detox look might be a little upsetting for an infant. What he inwardly acknowledged, too, with some self-ridicule, was that he felt ashamed; although Rosie had no concept of what he’d done, how he’d behaved, he didn’t want his young goddaughter to see him like that.

“Would you like me to fetch your bag from downstairs?” he asked Molly.

“My bag?” - she looked at him, brow furrowed for a moment – “Oh! No. I hadn’t…well, I didn’t think…I mean, I just assumed after what the doctor said, you probably wouldn’t need…”

He felt the need to rescue Molly from her awkwardness; after all, she was essentially right.

“Of course,” he replied. “Yes.”

She visibly recovered, leaving Sherlock feeling for a few seconds like a fool. He didn’t like to consider that his primary emotion at that moment appeared to be disappointment.

“You do look loads better,” Molly said, chirpily, setting Rosie down on the sofa to take off her coat. “Uncle Sherlock’s looking handsome again, isn’t he, Rosie?”

Sherlock saw Molly freeze for a moment, fixing her eyes on the sofa cushion as a light flush bloomed in her cheeks; evidently, she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“I mean, not that you didn’t-” she said, with a floundering hand gesture. “I mean, you just look well. Better. I’m pleased you look better. Do you feel better?”

He assured her that he did, trying not to read too much into Molly’s blatant over-compensation. If he hadn’t sworn off deducing her years ago, he might have thought…

“I meant to ask,” Molly continued, interrupting his thoughts. “You haven’t seen my watch, have you? I thought I might have left it here.”

Sherlock smiled.

“You’ll find a small collection of lost property on my desk,” he told her. “I believe it’s all yours, unless John has taken to wearing honey-flavoured lip gloss.”

Molly thanked him with an apologetic smile. The truth was, though, that there had been something not altogether unpleasant about stumbling across Molly’s stray belongings in random corners of 221B. Although he wasn’t about to tell her that the honey-flavoured lip gloss had put some very arresting ideas into his head, thoughts that he could only subdue by rapidly poring through his slide collection of fungi microbes.

“Sorry, I think I packed in a bit of a hurry last Saturday,” she said, checking that Rosie was safe before picking up her watch from the table.

Molly’s possessions in his home may have caused his bored mind to wander irresponsibly, but her actual presence had very nearly caused a full-on Holmes family crisis. That Saturday of which she spoke, Sherlock’s parents had ‘popped round’ unexpectedly early - supposedly because they had to catch an early train, but clearly because they wanted to carry out a surprise spot-check on their degenerate son.

Sherlock had been at pains to introduce Molly as  _Doctor_  Hooper, there to oversee his recovery, but his mother’s pursed lips and his father’s conspiratorial smile suggested they weren’t buying it. Perhaps not surprising, given that the doctor in question _was_ wearing his spare dressing gown and eating toast in his flat at nine o’clock in the morning. Rather tiresomely, all of his mother’s subsequent texts had asked after ‘Doctor Hooper’ as well as himself, which he systematically ignored.

He watched as Molly dug into her brightly-patterned tote bag, emerging with a neatly-wrapped gift.

“Rosie and I have got something for you,” she said. “Kind of a late birthday present.”

There was a shyness – almost reticence - in her tone; she hadn’t tried to give him a present since things went downhill very quickly at that horrible Christmas Eve soiree, and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. The memory alone was enough to chasten him again.

Before the present was in his hand, he had already deduced that it was a mug, but he understood that to say so would go against all gift-receiving etiquette. And he also wanted to grant Molly the enjoyment that she clearly derived from being a gift-giver.

He found himself holding an unfussy white mug, onto which Rosie’s tiny handprints had been printed side by side in purple paint; each tiny whorl, loop and arch was perfectly, pleasingly visible. Around the other side of the mug were painted the words  _Best godfather, hands down!_  – and if he hadn’t recognised Molly’s handwriting, the terrible pun was a dead giveaway. It was not a thing of beauty to the discerning eye, and ordinarily it was everything that he would hate in a gift – sentimental, mawkish, cheaply manipulative. But the sudden rush of warmth to his chest was evidence that this was not ‘ordinarily’.

“Thank you, Rosamund,” he said, leaning in to kiss his goddaughter’s soft head. “I shall try to live up to that very kind tribute.”

“She’s going to have to avoid a life of crime now that you’ve got her fingerprints,” Molly said, smiling.

Without fully realising what he was doing, Sherlock leaned in again, briefly inhaling the fresh scent of face lotion before bringing his lips to Molly’s cheek. He lingered there a moment, long enough to feel her react to him, before he retreated to a polite distance.

“Thank you,” he said. “For this. But not just for this.”

Molly nodded, letting out a huff of breath along with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Any time. I…I hope you know that.”

After the night of Mary’s death, his wanker-ish behaviour in the ambulance, and the small hours spent nursing him through the stranglehold of his withdrawal, he could hardly argue with that.

“There won’t be another time, Molly,” he found himself saying. “Not like this.”

She smiled again, but Sherlock could see it was tinged with something – she wanted to believe him, and yet…

That look, that uncertainty in Molly’s eyes, was a terrible thing to behold, let alone be the cause of. But it galvanised him; he’d finally uttered those words out loud, effectively turning them into a vow, and now he had to rise above the man he believed himself to be. The fact that Molly seemed to think he was something more could only act as further incentive.

“We, um, we brought you some other stuff, too,” Molly said, clearly keen to move the conversation on. “Well, I did, really. Some mysteries to solve.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow at her, and she responded with a grin as she dug back into the bag, handing him a plastic wallet full of papers.

“From this week’s post-mortems,” she explained. “There’s photos and some notes in there, so I thought you could work out the causes of death.”

“Because you can’t?” he queried.

Molly rolled her eyes.

“No! It’s…well, it’s sort of a game, I suppose,” she explained. “You know, to keep you busy; I know John’s told Greg that new cases are off-limits. Worried I might come round tomorrow and find the walls scrawled with ‘All play and no work make Sherlock a dull boy’.”

Sherlock eyed her quizzically; he was familiar with the aphorism, but not how it might relate to writing on his walls. From Molly’s subsequent expression, it seemed likely that some sort of pop-culture reference had just sailed past his ear.

“I thought it would be better than a Sudoku book **,** ” Molly smiled.

Sherlock flipped through the papers, careful to keep them from Rosie’s view.

“Thank you,” he said again, wondering what on earth he had done to deserve even one iota of this.

“When I come over tomorrow, I’ll tell you if you’ve got them right,” she said, standing Rosie on her knee and blowing a soft raspberry on her cheek. 

“I don’t think we need worry on that score,” he replied, leafing through the files again. “All looks fairly pedestrian.”

“Thought it might be best to ease you back in slowly,” Molly said.

Sherlock felt his skin flash hot, and he spontaneously let out a short cough, immediately trying to cover it by clearing his throat. What was presumably a totally innocuous turn of phrase when uttered by Molly became rather less so when it embedded itself in Sherlock’s cerebrum. A reflection, he knew, of the worrying directions in which his idle mind had been recently wandering. Lack of intellectual stimulation seemed to allow for stimulation of other kinds to flood his brain, and being left alone later that night with nothing but thoughts about Molly easing him in slowly (or otherwise), could end up being a Bit Not Good. Unlikely to help his recovery, either.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” he asked quickly.

Tea. Tea was a nice, neutral topic. Good.

“Please,” Molly replied, nodding. “I’ll warm some milk up for Rosie.”

“I can do it,” Sherlock replied, holding his hand out for the bottle.

She looked momentarily surprised.

“I believe I can remember the procedure,” he reassured her. “Water warm enough to heat the milk, but not so hot as to strip the epidermis from my hand. Hm?”

At this, Molly’s face broke into a broad smile, the sort that warmed his very core – the sort that, recently, he hadn’t given much cause for her to use. Sherlock busied himself with the tea, and located a Pyrex lab beaker that would hold the warm water.

“Oh, you won’t have seen Rosie’s new trick!” Molly said, from the living room. “We’ve been practicing, haven’t we Rosie?”

She paused.

“Wait, we should do this before she has the milk – it’s surprisingly hard to get milk-spew off carpets and rugs.”

Sherlock smiled.

“I’ll take that under advisement, Molly, thank you,” he said, emerging far enough from the kitchen to get a view of whatever it was their goddaughter was about to do. When Sherlock saw Molly set Rosie down on her hands and knees facing him, he got a pretty good idea about what it might be.

Initially, Rosie looked a little unsure, staring down at the rug in front of her while Molly offered gentle encouragement. She rocked back and forwards slightly on all fours, stopping again as though surprised that nothing was happening.

“Okay, how about this instead?” Molly said, moving a few feet away so that she was almost beside Sherlock. She crouched down on the floor, and started to encourage Rosie again. “Come on sweetheart, show Uncle Sherlock how clever you are.”

For a moment, Rosie looked to be on the verge of tears over her ‘abandonment’, but after many beckoning gestures and much patting of the carpet from Molly, she haltingly, unhurriedly crawled across the rug towards them, her tiny hands slapping the floor as she went. Sherlock found that he was watching Molly almost as much as he was watching Rosie, preoccupied by her reaction, by the obvious joy and pride on her face.

When Rosie was born, he had looked forward to the opportunity to observe first-hand and study an infant’s admittedly-remarkable development, but separating the data from the living, breathing, smiling subject proved surprisingly difficult. He watched as Molly scooped up Rosie, pulling her into a tight hug and placing a loud kiss on her forehead.

“Kiss from Uncle Sherlock?” Molly said.

Sherlock blanched for a second, before understanding who the intended recipient was. Obediently, he stooped to touch his lips Rosie’s head - close enough for his goddaughter to joyfully grab a fistful of his hair. Considering that he had endured an impressive variety of torture methods during his adventures in Eastern Europe, the grip of a determined baby was surprisingly savage. As gently as she possibly could, Molly uncurled Rosie’s grip and released him, her fingers grazing over Sherlock’s temple as she did so. Immediately, he flashed back to the previous week, Molly’s fingers gently carding through his hair as the dry-heaves subsided, when he was jolted awake by night-terrors.

Their faces were only inches apart; it seemed…possible.  

Then a text alert sounded from across the room.

Sherlock straightened up, and Molly smiled apologetically.

“That’s me,” she said, gesturing.

He held his arms out to take Rosie, so Molly could fetch her phone. Sherlock saw her brow furrow as she read it.

“John’s running late,” she murmured. “Thinks he’ll be another hour. Is that… is that okay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, hoping he sounded more magnanimous host than hormone-addled youth.

Molly thanked him, then glanced at her watch.

“I should probably give Rosie some dinner,” she said. “Would it be too much to hope that there’s food in the fridge?”

There was still a small amount of food in the fridge, largely because Sherlock’s appetite had yet to fully return, but it seemed to satisfy Molly’s needs. He watched, Rosie sitting on his knee at the kitchen table, as Molly took out and examined various foodstuffs, and started to look for pans. His goddaughter was paying little attention to the food preparation, more preoccupied with the array of lab equipment that was tantalizingly out of her reach.

In a very short while, Molly was fastening a bib around Rosie’s neck and setting a plate down in front of her. On it was an omelette, cut into strips, glistening with cheese and jeweled with tiny bits of ham and mushroom. Immediately, Rosie reached for the food. Sherlock felt his stomach growl; he was apparently envying a baby its supper.

“How do you know how to do…this?” he asked, with a vague waving gesture.

Molly pulled up the stool beside him, hands wrapping around her second cup of tea.

“Most of the time, I still have no idea what I’m doing, Sherlock,” she smiled.

He frowned.

“Really? I suppose I just assumed…”

Molly was an only child, he knew, but he’d pictured her as a teenage babysitter, entertaining younger cousins, playing with friends’ children.

“I’d never really looked after a baby before Rosie, not really,” she replied with a shrug. “But you work it out, you learn from your mistakes – Rosie’s pretty good at pointing it out when you get it wrong, particularly with food.”

She picked up a stray shred of ham and popped it into Rosie’s mouth.

“But she forgives you, doesn’t hold it against you,” Molly continued. “It’s…that’s pretty amazing, actually. Almost as though she understands that I’m still figuring all this stuff out too, that we’re doing it together.”

Sherlock watched as Molly helped Rosie to sip from her beaker of water, as though the two really were sharing two halves of a task.

“And…and failure,” she said, quickly licking cheese from her finger. “- giving up, walking away… well, it isn’t really an option, is it?”

He nodded, took this in, but the thought couldn’t escape him - he wondered whether this was the way Molly felt about him, too.

They sat in companionable silence while Rosie ate, and Sherlock found himself watching Molly’s hands, nimbly moving between tasks. Her hands had always fascinated him, going back to those early days working side by side in the lab – not in a prurient way, but more in admiration and appreciation. But after the events of the past couple of weeks, he now couldn’t stop thinking how it felt to be touched by those hands, used on him so capably and caringly. At first, she had sought permission before helping him, touching him, but they had soon got to the point where she inherently understood when he needed her, with barely a look passing between them. He couldn’t remember another time when he’d experienced the physical touch of another person quite so regularly, and when he retreated into his mind palace, he could revisit that sensation, that warmth.

And now, watching Molly, sitting so close to her, he realised that it was possible he was missing it.

After Rosie had her fill of omelette, she turned her attention to feeding her godfather, delighted when Sherlock allowed her to post a scrap into his mouth (babies were simultaneously both impossible _and_ laughably easy to please, he realised).

“Uncle Sherlock needs feeding up, doesn’t he, Rosie?” Molly smiled.

“Uncle Sherlock is wondering what he may be inadvertently consuming along with Rosie’s leftovers,” he replied, wrinkling his nose.

Molly handed him some sort of fruit puree concoction with which to distract Rosie, while she washed the dishes. Afterwards, Sherlock sat in his chair, cradling his violin and watching out of the corner of his eye while Molly gave Rosie a ‘tour’ of his living room, pointing out particular things and picking up other items so Rosie could take a closer look. When Rosie tired of this, Molly sat in John’s old chair with her and looked through some picture books in quiet but animated tones; Sherlock found himself closing his eyes, listening as intently as he could to Molly’s voice. If this really was sentiment at work, it was at least killing him softly.

He only realised that he might have actually fallen asleep when he heard a knock at the door of the flat.

“I think that could be Daddy,” Molly said, lifting Rosie into her arms and going to answer the door.

Immediately John was in the room, Rosie’s tired eyes suddenly lit up again; her father, Sherlock noted, was exactly the same.

“Evening, Sherlock,” John said, with a nod. “You’re looking better, mate.”

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock replied (‘handsome’, he believed was the term actually used, and he wasn’t going to forget it).

“Thanks so much, Molls,” John said, working a protesting Rosie into her coat. “One of the other doctors had to go home ill, and there was a queue in the waiting room a mile long and, well… you know how it is.”

“Molly’s patients tend to queue very quietly and without complaint,” Sherlock deadpanned, noticing with no small amount of contentment that he had made her smile again.

“Can we give you a lift?” John asked, pulling Rosie’s hat onto her head.

Sherlock felt something within him plummet five feet to the floor. He darted a look at Molly, who seemed to be wavering.

“Oh. I, um…” Molly began. “Thank you, but-”

“She’ll take the lift, John,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet.

Molly frowned at him, questioningly.

“What about… will you be okay?”

He watched her eyes searching his face for motive.

“I’ll be fine, Molly,” he replied. “I have very much enjoyed the company of you both this evening, but you have been up since five o’clock this morning, and have spent the past two hours babysitting one regular and one vastly-oversized baby. You should get some rest.”

She looked at him for another moment, as though about to say something, then slowly nodded.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “If you’re sure. But you know you can text me.”

He nodded.

“I know. But I promise that I have nothing more dangerous planned for this evening than attempting to scavenge biscuits from Mrs **.** Hudson’s kitchen.”

Molly smiled again and, before Sherlock really had time to react, she took a step towards him and gave him a quick, tight hug. It was gone before he knew it.

Once they had left, Sherlock moved around the living room, half-heartedly tidying as he turned the evening’s events – and the feelings they had stirred – over in his mind. It was hard not to feel that at some point in the past weeks, months or even years, he might have made a catastrophic mistake; that he had put certain possibilities – ones he’d never thought he wanted, or could even have - forever out of his reach.

He picked up his new mug from the coffee table, taking another look at it before swirling the last dregs of tea around and pouring them into the sink. It was only on doing this that he noticed that there was something on the base of the mug. He quickly rinsed it, then turned it over.

Painted, in familiar neat cursive, were the words ‘To Sherlock, love Molly xxx’.

Whatever it was within him that had recently dropped five feet had suddenly surged upwards again. He placed the mug upside-down on the draining board, then quickly fetched his violin and bow, settling the instrument under his chin as he took up his position at the kitchen table.

Perhaps he knew how this piece could end after all.

 

 


	4. The Number 205

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives an unusual email on her way to babysit Rosie...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the lovely comments that have been coming my way about this story - really appreciate it!
> 
> And thanks, as ever, to geekmama for spotting my typos, duplications and occasional abuses of the English language :-)

She was clearing up after the final post-mortem of the day, thinking about what to collect for dinner on the way to the bus stop, when her phone rang. John’s name appeared on the display, so she immediately picked up.

“Hi,” he began, sounding a little breathless. “Glad I caught you before you left work.”

He sounded to Molly as though he was outdoors.

**“** Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. But I’ve just been asked to do one of the other doctor’s house calls before I do the evening surgery, so I’ve had to leave early,” he replied.

The background noise changed again, as he’d clearly climbed into the car and closed the door.

“Oh, okay. Do you need me to meet you somewhere and pick up Rosie?” Molly asked, wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could remove the disposable gloves.

There was a pause before John cleared his throat slightly.

“Ah, no, that’s okay,” he replied. “She’s…actually, Sherlock is with her.”

Okay. Now she understood. Now she knew exactly why he had paused.

“Molly…is that okay?” John asked, cautiously. “I mean, I know it’s not…I couldn’t think what else to do, and Sherlock offered, and it seemed like he genuinely wanted to help, so I-”

“It’s fine,” Molly said, cutting him off in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. The last thing John needed on top of everything else in his life was having to navigate the complications of his friends’…complications. “Honestly, it’s no problem. I’ll see you later.”

“If you’re sure?” John asked, with a note of concern.

“Yeah, completely,” Molly replied, trying to ignore the increased heartrate she seemed to be experiencing. “It’ll be fine.”

“Okay. I mean, I’m working on the basis that there’s a limit to the damage that even Sherlock can do in the space of forty-five minutes.”

_Try three minutes_ , Molly thought. She then felt a pang of remorse; despite everything, that felt cruel.

John had obviously been considering his comment, too, though, because after a pause, he came back on the line.

“Sorry, Molls, that was…ignore me. Sometimes I think the sleeping pills do more harm to my brain than good,” he said, apologetically.

“I’ll head over to yours now,” she told him, feeling that it would probably be better for both of them if the conversation ended soon. “See you around eight?”

John confirmed it, and Molly hung up the phone. She stood there in the silence of the morgue for a moment, hoping that she could regain control of her racing mind or her racing heart, or ideally both. As the afternoon had wound down, she had been anticipating a quiet evening with Rosie; looking forward to the routine of feeding her, bathing her and putting her to bed (Rosie was incredibly amenable at bedtime, as though she sensed that the adults in her life needed a break). After that, there would just be time to microwave and eat last night’s leftovers, hopefully in front of something suitably mindless and distracting on the TV.

But, as had been the case so many times in recent memory, Sherlock Holmes apparently had other ideas. Even when he wasn’t actually trying to interfere with her life, he just seemed to have that effect. But it was hard to believe that he  _wasn’t_  trying – that this wasn’t some sort of…ploy.

Molly sighed; now she felt guilty again. Although their last meeting resolved precisely nothing, she did at least believe Sherlock when he told her that he would never try to manipulate her, that he would be honest with her. In the circumstances, it was a small victory, but perhaps at least it meant that he, too, might be apprehensive about the moment later that day when she would ring the bell at John’s flat.

Twenty minutes later, she was getting on the bus, and had just squeezed herself and her bags into a seat when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Wondering if John might be trying to apologise again (it would be easier on them both if he just let it go), she pulled out her phone, but instead saw that it was an email notification.

From Sherlock.

She unlocked the screen display, but her thumb hovered over the notification. Why was he sending her an email when he knew he was going to see her in half an hour? She should have stopped asking questions like that a long time ago, where Sherlock was concerned (he had once texted her from across the bench in the lab to ask for a packet of crisps from the vending machine), but since that phone call, and their one subsequent conversation, these things couldn’t help but take on extra weight and significance.

When Molly opened the email, she found that there was no content whatsoever – only an attachment. A video file:

<XXX.mov>

Ohhhh, wonderful. Was he unintentionally sending her porn now? Or worse – intentionally?

She turned her eyes to the traffic outside for a moment, then looked back at her phone. What was this, if it wasn’t another game?

Presumably, Sherlock intended for her to watch this before she saw him, and as Molly dug around her duffel bag for her headphones, she felt a flash of annoyance that he knew that she would. Untangling the rat’s nest of headphone wires (how did they manage to do that in her bag?), she was steeling herself for the very real possibility that she would make a spectacle of herself on this bus – whether it was bursting into tears or throwing her phone at the window, that remained to be seen.

She clicked on the file, and a message popped up to ask if she wanted to scan the file for viruses – yep, probably a good idea, considering.

The file came back clean, and Molly put her headphones in, feeling the tips of her fingers tingling slightly as she clicked ‘yes’ to open the file.

After a moment or two of loading, the video started to play, and the first thing she saw was the front of Sherlock’s shirt, followed by his neck and then his arm, as he stood back from starting the video player going on his phone. Eventually, he sat back on a chair, pausing to straighten his lapels and cuffs, and to ruffle his hair to his satisfaction (and hers – but she refused to go there right now). Molly could see from his surroundings that he wasn’t at Baker Street; he was sitting at the dining table at John’s flat.

When he started talking, though, he wasn’t addressing the camera.

“First of all, I must express my gratitude for your assistance with this, Watson,” he said, looking slightly to his left. “I have long professed that this is not my area, but I can no longer fall back on that as an excuse.”

At this point, he leaned forward to shift the camera, moving it backwards and to one side until Molly could see Rosie beside him. She was sitting in her highchair, a small plate of snacks and toys in front of her on the table. Molly felt herself take a sharp breath.

“Much like your father, I have found that you are a useful sounding board for my ideas and theories,” Sherlock continued. “But unlike your father, I know that you will not attempt to offer me advice where it isn’t wanted. Your father has offered up some spectacularly bad advice in the past few weeks, Rosie - but, I confess, there was one thing he said that did have some resonance. Strong resonance. And that is the reason why you and I are convened here like this.”

Rosie was occupied with a small collection of raisins on her plate, and looked up at Sherlock with casual curiosity.

“As we have discussed,” Sherlock said. “We will shortly be seeing your Aunty Molly. Yes, I know, that  _is_  exciting, but please try to focus on the matter in hand.”

Rosie had clearly responded to the familiarity of Molly’s name, and Molly bit her lip at the emotion this seemed to provoke.

“The last time I saw your Aunt Molly, our meeting and the conversation therein ended in a manner that was less than satisfactory,” Sherlock said, placing his clasped hands on the table.

Molly’s breath hitched again.

“For that, I can only blame myself,” he went on. “For while I am able to expound upon any number of arcane and some might say esoteric subject matters – or, as your daddy puts it, I am a git who enjoys the sound of my own voice – I am fundamentally terrible at expressing anything that has its roots in sentiment.”

He paused, before adding quickly, “My apologies for the use of the word ‘git’, but compared to the language your father comes out with, it’s really very mild.”

Against her better judgement and the tumult of emotions she was experiencing, Molly felt herself smiling.

“But back to the matter in hand, Rosie,” Sherlock continued, looking very intently at his goddaughter. “As you know, your Aunty Molly and I said some very important words to each other recently. I didn’t know how important they were until I said them, and that is part of the problem.”

Molly could see him taking a breath.

“Also, the fact that I am quite clearly an idiot is also a not insignificant part of the problem,” he said.

At this point, Rosie chimed in with some very loud, very insistent babble.

“Thank you,” Sherlock continued, brow furrowed. “Your insight is always very refreshing. No, Rosie, you may keep the breadstick – I will take your word for how delicious it is. Very considerate of you, though."

He took another breath.

“Anyway, Rosie, I made your Aunty Molly cry that day, for which I am very sorry, and for which, at least, I believe she forgives me.”

 Molly swallowed hard, releasing a breath, unsure whether it was a good idea to continue.

“I also did something that I found very scary,” he said. “When you’re a little older – or a  _lot_  older if your father has his way - I will begin to tell you about some of the truly terrifying, appalling things that I have seen and experienced in my chosen field of work. They’re good stories, and most of them end well. But nothing has frightened me more than standing in front of Aunty Molly and saying those important words again.”

At this, Molly closed her eyes – she couldn’t help it. Immediately, she thought back to that moment in the lab three weeks earlier, when they saw each other for the first time after the phone call. The air had been oppressively heavy with all of the things they couldn’t bring themselves to say to each to each other; the things she was  _afraid_  to say, the things she couldn’t bear to hear.

“The problem is,” Sherlock continued. “It eventually became clear to me that there were some crossed wires.”

Molly opened her eyes again.

“Your Aunt Molly seems to be laboring under the misapprehension that I do not feel for her what she feels for me. And I did not have the opportunity to set her straight in this matter because Aunty Molly is extremely good at verbal deflection and can make it extraordinarily difficult to get a word in edgeways when she wants to – and then, Rosie, your daddy blundered into the lab in his customary, inimitable style, and that, as they say, was that.”

Molly let out a short gasp of laughter, blinking as she allowed his words to begin to sink in. She wanted to accept them wholeheartedly, to welcome and embrace them, but there was something within her still holding them at bay. She swallowed, wiped the corner of her eye with her thumb.

On the screen, Rosie was leaning out from her highchair, whining and straining to reach something that was slightly out of shot.

“Ah, you want the penguin?” Sherlock said to her, handing her a plush toy. “You see, Rosie, this illustrates my point: you see the penguin, you want the penguin, you know how to obtain the penguin. There is a directness with which you express both your deepest needs and most ardent emotions that leaves little room for doubt, and this is why you are a valuable ally to me in this endeavour.”

For some reason, this prompted Rosie to beam at him and swing the soft toy in his direction.

“Yes, you’re right, I  _am_  running out of time,” Sherlock said. “So there are several things that I need to say very clearly to your Aunty Molly, so she can hopefully understand exactly what I meant when I said those important words.”

Molly saw him straighten in his seat, lines marking his forehead as he gathered his thoughts. She recognised a  _here goes nothing_  expression when she saw one, and felt herself drawing in her breath in sympathy and anticipation. 

“Firstly, she needs to know that despite everything that I may have stated in the past, everything that I believed to be true about myself, I  _am_  capable of romantic feeling,” Sherlock said, a small, reflective smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “The evidence is undeniable.”

“And that romantic feeling – in case I haven’t been clear enough on this point – is wholly and unequivocally for your Aunt Molly. It is maddening and unsettling, but it also astonishing and wonderful, and I have no intention of pretending it isn’t there.”

At this, Molly was fairly certain she must have let out some kind of strange sound, because the teenage boy on the seat in front of her had glanced over his shoulder with a look of mild alarm.

“I feel it’s also important, Rosie,” Sherlock continued. “that I clear up any possible ambiguity around the more, ah, ‘physical’ component of my feelings towards your Aunt Molly. She can be assured that physical attraction is very much  _not_  an issue – I would gladly go into this in greater detail, but your father already thinks I’m a bad influence on your young, developing mind. I believe the thing to say is that I  _fancy_  her. Yes, I know that is a ridiculous thing for a forty-year old man to say, Rosie, but if it means that your Aunt Molly will believe me, I am quite prepared to sound ridiculous." 

Despite herself, Molly felt an immediate spike of warmth shoot through her, her heart-rate kick up another level. It didn’t seem possible that she was actually hearing these things coming from Sherlock’s mouth. It seemed more likely that she was having a massive stroke, or had actually been  _hit_  by the bus on the way to catch it and was currently in a coma, her brain treating her to a medley of wish-fulfilment greatest hits, as she departed this world.

 "I know that these things alone are all very well," Sherlock said. "But your Aunt Molly deserves more than just the important words and the knowledge that I admire her... ah, physical form. I have never committed myself to another human being, Rosie, because I have never even come close to wanting to - in fact, agreeing to become your godfather was the closest I have ever come. So let's revise that and say that I have never committed to another human being without the prospect of cake being involved. What I believe I am trying to say is that I don't know if I'm any good at it - I can't make that promise. But I do know that I want, more than anything, to try - and Rosie, it surely can't be harder to be with your Aunt Molly than it is now to be without her."

That was it. Any hope of keeping it together was now lost, and she was going to have to add the number 205 bus to the list of public locations where she had turned into a blubbering wreck (a small but significant sub-category of that list had Sherlock as the source).

"If your Aunt Molly is wondering what that commitment might look like, I leave that entirely in her hands," Sherlock said, his serious tone drawing a look of puzzlement from Rosie. "But she should know that legally-binding ceremonies and the creation of small humans are not off the table. If that’s what she wants."

Molly felt her eyes widen at the realisation that Sherlock Holmes had more or less just proposed marriage to her - hadn't he? The fact that he had done so while addressing an eight-month-old baby in a hastily-shot home video did nothing to dilute the impact of that

"Now, I feel that it's possible, Rosie, that if she is still watching this, your Aunt Molly might be reaching the conclusion that there is something wrong with Uncle Sherlock - that I am perhaps still suffering the effects of trauma and cannot possibly mean what I am saying. But in fact, the opposite is true – it’s the understanding and acceptance of the latent trauma of my early years that has helped to make everything clear to me right now, in the present. And while lots of things remain uncertain at the moment, nothing is clearer to me than this - I love your Aunt Molly."

Molly's hand went to her mouth, and she wasn’t sure whether she was stifling the tears or the huge smile that had now overtaken her (thank god that weird behaviour was so commonplace on public transport).

"How does that sound, Rosie?" Sherlock asked, his own smile playing around the edges of his lips. "Does that sound good? I think it sounds good. I hope your Aunt Molly will think so, too."

It was the only time during the course of the whole video that Molly saw Sherlock’s gaze flick to the camera, just for a split second. He then turned back to Rosie, placing his palms flat on the table while he addressed her.

“Well, I think we both deserve a biscuit after that, Rosie, don’t you?” he said, rising from his seat. “Though we should make sure we leave one for Aunty Molly.”

Molly watched as Sherlock reached across the table again to stop the recording, the screen on her phone going black, before asking if she wanted to play the video again. Yes, she wanted to see it again – she _needed_ to see it again – but there would be time later, at her leisure, and on a loop if that’s what she wanted. But now all she could think about was that she was still on the bloody bus.

It was only when she was finally deposited around the corner from John’s street that Molly realised that she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do or say when the front door opened. If she was like Sherlock, she could probably calculate all the different ways things could play out, and work out a detailed plan for each eventuality, all between the bus stop and John’s flat. But before she knew it, she was already there, and all she had time to do was check her mascara in the screen of her phone and make sure she didn’t have any apple peel stuck in her teeth. Otherwise, the situation – and Sherlock – would have to take her as she was. Although for once, she had confidence that it might be enough.

When he opened the door, Sherlock was holding Rosie in one arm, reminding Molly of how little time must have passed between him making the video and her watching it.

And he looked… uncertain.

“Hi,” Molly began, her voice coming out much more quietly than she expected.

“Hello,” he replied, his tone almost cautious.

She had assumed that Sherlock would have all this worked out, that he would know exactly what would happen next. But as she watched his eyes dart from her, to the ground and back again, she realised that it was probably all in the video – whatever happened now really was up to her.

“I take it you… ?” Sherlock began, clearing his throat.

She nodded.

“Can I… come in?”

She had to smile to herself as he looked momentarily confused – and then slightly embarrassed. He stood back, allowing her into the flat. Molly set down her bag and quietly said hello to Rosie, kissing one of her balled little fists.

Molly pinched her lips tightly together, letting out a breath. When she looked at Sherlock again, she was slightly alarmed to see that he looked noticeably paler; she understood he wasn’t used to being uncertain about anything, but he seemed to be about this. Strange time for the tables to have turned.

“So, that was… ?” Molly began

“Yes.”

“And it _was_ actually… I mean, it wasn’t…?” – she didn’t know how to phrase this.

“What, Molly?” Sherlock queried, one eyebrow cocked.

“I don’t know,” Molly sighed, floundering for an explanation. “…like _performance art_ , or something.”

At this, Sherlock raised both eyebrows, and managed a smile at her expense. It might have sounded ridiculous, but she’d seen video installations at the Tate Modern that were less unexpected and wrong-footing than what she’d just watched on the bus.

“Molly, I don’t precisely know what performance art is, but it doesn’t sound like something I would likely do, does it?”

“No,” she conceded. “So you…?”

“To confirm: yes. To all of it.”

“Okay.”

The word came out of her mouth a little higher than she’d planned. She took another breath, afraid she was going to let out some sort of manic laughter, or possibly a primal scream. Both would surely be justifiable in the circumstances - although she did have Rosie’s wellbeing to think about.

“And John really is out on house calls?” she queried.

“That’s what he said, yes.”

Molly eyed him.

“So you…didn’t arrange any of this?”

Sherlock smiled again.

“Nooo. But it presented me with an opportunity,” he said. “I felt I needed a particular kind of help.”

 Molly glanced at Rosie, who was staring at her while holding tightly to Sherlock’s lapel and drooling liberally onto her cardigan. The sight of the two of them was still so incongruous, even after all these months.

“You thought you could use your goddaughter to manipulate me?” she smiled.

“ _Our_ goddaughter,” he replied. And, pursing his lips, he added, “Did…it work?”

Molly could feel a blush coming over her, the inevitable effect of meeting Sherlock’s focused gaze – the fact that there was a baby poking her fingers into his ear made little difference.

“If you two started your own YouTube Channel, I would definitely subscribe,” Molly replied, watching Sherlock’s eyes as she took a step closer towards him.

Sherlock swallowed, his face an odd mixture of nervousness and amusement.

“Good,” he said, his voice low. “That won’t be happening, but good.”

Molly felt another smile creep across her face.

“So you, um…fancy me?” she said, aiming for a breezy, casual tone, but looking at him very pointedly.

At this, it seemed to be Sherlock’s turn to blush, almost wince; in fact, even the word seemed to mortify him. Oh, but it was definitely worth it.

“I think that would be accurate, Molly, yes,” he replied.

She nodded slowly, still keeping her eyes on him.

“Did you remember anything else from the video, or was it just that?” he asked, when she didn’t say anything further.

Molly grinned.

“I can’t honestly think of a single bit I didn’t like,” she told him.

And in response, Sherlock’s expression broke into one of those rare and wonderful smiles, which seemed to stretch the full width of his face and make his eyes crinkle at the corners. Molly felt an incredible feeling of lightness come over her, and she wondered whether he felt it, too.

Sherlock adjusted Rosie in his arms and took another step towards Molly, until he was in her space, almost standing over her. Perhaps it should have felt strange having a small onlooker present but, Molly reflected, this was just who they were now – a little older, a little battle-worn, but she knew she was a better person for it, and that it had been the making of Sherlock, too.

“Although I think you said something about saving me a biscuit?” she added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, with a tiny huff of amused frustration.

“Fine.”

He turned to go, but Molly didn’t let him get far. Catching his elbow, she stilled him, before arching up on her toes and finally – _finally_ \- pressing her lips to that distractingly perfect cupid’s bow. It was an incredible feeling to be able to take that step with complete certainty, with the assurance that it was wanted, desired. She felt Sherlock take a small, sharp breath against her mouth, then he started to respond, the contours of his lips somehow fitting perfectly with hers. The kiss was warm and tender and unhurried - and, by necessity, audience-appropriate (there would be plenty of time later to push the family-friendly rating).

When they pulled away, Molly had to suppress a giggle when she saw the expression on Rosie’s face; Sherlock, too, gave a small snort of laughter. Their goddaughter was staring at them with what could only be described as bewilderment, her brow creased and her little mouth poised in a perfect ‘o’, as though undecided whether she was going to smile or dissolve into tears.

“It’s perfectly alright, Rosie,” Sherlock said, a smile spreading across his face again. “I know it might _look_ strange, but that was what Uncle Sherlock hoped was going to happen.”

 

 


	5. A Bit Not Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several weeks have past since Sherrinford, and Molly finds her godparenting responsibilities are not entirely compatible with another offer she's been made for the afternoon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in posting this latest chapter - real life has hit me in a big way this week! 
> 
> I've upped the rating on this to M, just in case - nothing explicit, mostly just silliness and a generous helping of insinuation.
> 
> Thanks to geekmama for beta-ing again (and for pointing out that boxers aren't an effective method of birth control...!)

This was a bad idea – a _really_ bad idea.

She’d even said as much fifteen minutes ago, but that belief had been temporarily suppressed by a truly-bloody-magnificent kiss, a pair of cerulean eyes employed to devastating (and blatantly tactical) effect, and her own undeniable desire to repeat the activities of a few nights ago. If she’d been told five years ago that this would be on the table (metaphorically – the actual table hadn’t yet been explored as an option), there was no _way_ that version of Molly Hooper would have looked such a gift horse in the mouth.

But _this_ version of Molly Hooper had responsibilities, obligations. She’d made grown-up promises – to people who relied on and trusted her.

The fact that she also had a libidinous consulting detective in the next room, angling rather keenly for some ‘afternoon delight’, put her in an unexpected quandary.

The first three or four weeks had been taken at a fairly unhurried, measured pace – Sherlock was still shuttling between Baker Street and Sherrinford, as well as mediating between Mycroft and their parents, and Molly felt it was no bad thing for _her_ to also have the time and space to get used to the momentous change that had taken place between them. But two weeks ago, Sherlock had arrived at her flat after working his first case since Sherrinford, and had made it pretty clear that he was now ready to make good on his promises to her – and since then, the pace hadn’t really let up. Not that Molly was complaining (being almost permanently tired and slightly sore was a price well worth paying) and seeing as she was the instigator as often as he was, she knew she didn’t really have the right anyway.

But it was hard to deny that Sherlock Holmes was having an effect on her judgement – this situation being a case in point.

The agreement for her to babysit Rosie on Wednesday afternoons had been in place for weeks and had become part of Molly’s regular routine. John would drop his daughter off on the way to the clinic and collect her on his way back, by which time Molly would have given Rosie her dinner and got her ready to go straight to bed once she was back at home. It was a routine that worked, but when Sherlock texted that morning to suggest that he come over (naturally, he knew it was her afternoon off), not only did Molly not say no, but she also went and moved the bloody travel cot out of her bedroom and into the spare one. So it was hard to deny, she conceded, as she hovered at the door of the spare room, that this was pretty much premeditated on her part, too. She was setting the scene, paving the way. She’d even had an excuse ready if John queried why the cot had moved – something about starting to make Rosie feel as though the spare room was her room.

She was a bad person, a bad babysitter and an even worse godmother.

As it turned out, John hadn’t noticed the new furniture arrangements, but then he apparently hadn’t noticed the new ‘arrangement’ between his friends, either. Molly kept experiencing a pang of guilt that neither she nor Sherlock had told him yet, but it was all still so new, and she felt weirdly protective of what was happening between them – that they needed time to figure it out in private, away from the watchful gaze of well-meaning friends and relatives, and that they’d earned the right to do that. She actually felt that John would understand.

She wasn’t entirely convinced, however, that John would be so understanding about what was happening right now – or about to happen, if Molly didn’t put a stop to it.

She pushed open her bedroom door and – oh god, he was already in bed. There was a neat pile of clothes on the chair by her dresser (he didn’t really go in for casting aside his clothes with reckless abandon), although at a glance Molly couldn’t tell whether it was _all_ of his clothes; it certainly included his shirt, though, because the consulting detective in her bed was decidedly, delectably ( _shut up Molly!_ ) bare-chested.

“Are you… coming in, Molly?” he queried, referring to the fact that she was sort of hovering at the threshold of the room. He really did have a bedroom voice, deliberate or not, and it was bloody effective.

“I… um… I should probably just check on her one last time,” Molly replied, with an apologetic smile/wince.

“Because the situation might have changed dramatically in the past fourteen seconds?” he asked, eyes narrowed, quizzically.

She shrugged, and ducked back out to the hallway, just catching Sherlock rolling his eyes and flopping back on the pillow. Careful not to make a sound, she peeped around the door just far enough to see that Rosie was still fast asleep, her position unchanged, her cheek tucked up against one of her soft toys.

She took a deep breath. There was something massively unfair about this; she had spent the past seven years feeling guilty about being hugely turned on by Sherlock, and now that she could actually _act_ upon it (with him as an active participant), she was _still_ being made to feel guilty.

When Molly went back into the bedroom, she almost had a cardiac arrest as her nose made contact with Sherlock’s bare chest.

“God!”

“Wellll…okay, if you insist, Molly,” he smirked.

Well, that answered her question about his state of undress – at least he did have pants on, but Sherlock could have been wearing a crocheted poncho and it wouldn’t have made the least bit of difference to the effect on her, not with what his eyes were doing, and where his hands were going.

“Hello,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as his fingers slowly skated up and down her bare arms, immediately causing them to prickle with goose-bumps.

Molly’s hands were clearly out to betray her conscience, because suddenly they were moving over his stomach, his ribs, his chest, his shoulders – and it was only a matter of a pair of arched feet and a dipped head moving in tandem to cancel out their height difference, and then they were kissing.

“Mmm…missed you,” Sherlock mumbled against her mouth. “Missed this.”

He’d only been gone two nights, but Molly couldn’t disagree, and all she had time to do was nod vigorously in agreement before she felt a pair of strong, dexterous hands take hold of the back of her thighs and lift her off the floor. Reacting instinctively, she wrapped her legs around Sherlock’s waist, but she was only airborne for a few seconds before she made a gentle(ish) landing on the top of the duvet – followed quickly by Sherlock, who grinned as he pinned her lightly beneath him.

Oh, who was she kidding?!

Molly took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him down to her, kissing him thoroughly and eliciting a low, delighted chuckle from somewhere in the back of his throat. Satisfied that Sherlock was handling the whole kissing thing pretty well, she started work on the buttons of her work blouse; once it was open, Sherlock pulled her up towards him so that she could shrug out of it. He broke their kiss long enough to wrestle momentarily with the fastening on her trousers, a growl of frustration escaping him at the difficulty he had removing them completely. Molly almost had to clamp a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle, but Sherlock swooped in again, covering her mouth with his own, this time with a purr of satisfaction.

Molly hooked a leg over Sherlock’s thigh, urging him closer, and it was as he grasped that leg that she suddenly stilled, froze.

“What?” Sherlock said, head popping up.

“I think… I’m pretty sure I heard something,” she whispered, not expecting to sound so breathless so soon.

“Unless that ‘something’ is an immediate threat to life, Molly, I can’t see how it can possibly matter in this particular situation.”

“No, I mean I heard Rosie,” she hissed back at him, hands braced on Sherlock’s chest.

“No, you didn’t,” he replied, assuredly, dipping to kiss her again. “And anyway, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well, she could walk in on us for a start,” Molly said, words slightly smothered by really, _really_ distractingly-good kisses.

At this, he pulled away slightly, eyeing her with mild impatience.

“Molly, the chances of Rosie ‘walking in on us’, as you put it, are vastly reduced by the fact that Rosie can’t walk,” he said. “And even if, by some feat of infant dexterity, she was able to climb out of her cot and crawl to your bedroom, I’m fairly confident that she hasn’t yet mastered the mechanical intricacies of door handles.”

He had a point. And, in fairness, she couldn’t hear anything now.

Sherlock seemed to sense that she was relenting, gently but firmly pressing her into the mattress, rolling his hips so that there was absolutely no mistaking just how much he’d missed her in the past couple of days. Long fingers wriggled their way underneath her back, aiming for her bra strap (he could crack safes and text at high speed behind his back, but bra straps were apparently still problematic), when Molly was hit by another wave of…wrongness.

“Sherlock, we are _terrible_ godparents,” she sighed, arching her neck involuntarily as he nuzzled into it.

He hummed his disagreement against her skin, then lifted his head just far enough to make himself heard.

“No, we’re not,” he stated. “We are actively working towards providing Rosie with a playmate, so I actually think that makes us excellent godparents.”

Molly couldn’t help the slight jolt that her heart seemed to give at his words, at this reminder, but their choice of birth control (or lack thereof) hardly seemed a very good excuse and did nothing to ease her misgivings.

 “Okay, but what would John think?” she protested, taking hold of the hand that was still struggling with her bra strap and dragging it out from behind her.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a second.

“Well, he’d probably be quite shocked at _you_ ,” he replied. “Your conduct is usually beyond reproach.”

Molly scoffed. Did he think she filled in the correct paperwork for all of those ‘spare’ body-parts that made their way to his salad-crisper?

“Oh, so you get off scot-free because John _already_ thinks you’re reckless and irresponsible?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her.

“While it’s true that ‘getting off’ is very much on my mind, Molly,” he told her, with a smirk, “at this moment I don’t particularly care what John thinks about it.”

Molly rolled her eyes at him. Now she felt like a prudish killjoy – which was really, really unfair, given how much she wanted to have sex with him right now.  

“In addition,” Sherlock continued, “it would be hypocritical of John to say anything, really, given how long he’s been banging on about me giving the whole _love and feelings_ thing a go.”

Corrupting his young daughter in the process probably wasn’t, Molly reflected, what John had in mind.

But that L-word from Sherlock’s mouth always had the most shattering effect on her - implied inverted commas or not - because it was still the most miraculous, astounding thing, and particularly when it was accompanied by such a warm, ardent gaze. So, when he moved to kiss her again, Molly responded in kind, scooting across so that Sherlock could pull the duvet over them both.

After a few moments, Sherlock’s hands paused in their purposeful exploration of her, and he rolled to one side – apparently about to complete the job of undressing.

At that moment, once again, Molly was seized by a horrible lurch of remorse.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked.

Sherlock paused, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Well, yes, but keep them on!”

He released the waistband of his boxers with an audible snap.

“Molly, I’m fairly sure that, even with my admittedly limited experience, it works better if I don’t.”

She rolled her eyes again, pushing her hair out of her face (great – now she had sex-hair, but without the sex).

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then… what?” Sherlock queried.

She sighed, finding it hard to ignore the soft circles that Sherlock was now tracing over her hipbone.

“Sherlock, you know full well that there’s absolutely no situation - you know, with us both here like this - where I’d be telling you to put your pants back _on_. So you just can’t take them off. Where… where are you going?”

Partway through her admittedly preposterous rationalisation, Sherlock had flung back the covers and was making his way around her bed towards the door.

“Rosamund has such a thing as a baby monitor, yes?” he said, pausing in the doorway. “So, I suggest we use it. I’d rather _not_ express our love physically with the sound of our goddaughter’s breathing as mood music, but if it will help you to stop fretting and relax, then I will adapt.”

Molly was tempted to stick out her tongue at his back, but it was a compromise of sorts, she supposed (although she still wasn’t convinced that sex and babysitting were things that should be multitasked together).

A few moments later, Sherlock was back in the room. He discarded the baby monitor on the bedside table and slid back underneath the covers, immediately shifting across the bed and closing the distance between them. He tipped Molly’s chin up to allow him to cover her mouth with his again, and this time he was slower, more gentle, as though trying to reassure. She started to lose herself in the warmth, in the familiarity and absolute certainty that were now more of a turn-on than the hormone-fired newness of a few weeks ago.

“You shouldn’t worry, Molly,” Sherlock muttered, as she felt his fingers skitter from her waist to the middle of her back again. “I imagine this is what parents of young children do all the time. I mean, not _my_ parents, obviously, as that would be unspeakable, but other parents, I assume.”

He continued to press soft kisses to her jaw, her cheek.

“We could look on this as practice,” he added. “A test.”

Molly gave a quiet snort of laughter. This was one area of Sherlock’s life where she had hoped experiments might be left at the door, so to speak.

“What are we testing exactly?” she asked, noting that the mysteries of the bra strap were _still_ eluding Sherlock. “How quickly and quietly we can shag?”

“How we can make love in an efficient, yet mutually-satisfying manner, yes,” he confirmed. “Because if all proceeds as I hope it will, then we will one day have a small person of our own, whose sleep routine will dictate when we can… do this.”

It was another one of those moments where Molly had to pinch her lips together in a smile to prevent a ridiculous belly-laugh of happy, bemused disbelief from escaping. Somehow, their wildly differing paths in life had intersected at this moment, fused together and propelled them on this new adventure.

“I want that, too,” she whispered, reaffirmed.

A smile started to spread across his face, quickly followed by a small “ha!” of victory, as his fingers finally got the better of her bra clasp.

“Well, I understand that this is a particularly good time,” Sherlock said, smoothing the flat of his palms up and down her back. “In your cycle, I mean.”

“And you know that, how?” Molly enquired, arching an eyebrow at him as she nudged him onto his back.

“Simple pattern observation,” Sherlock replied, as Molly moved to straddle his waist, his hands immediately finding purchase on her thighs. “As it happens, I’ve been familiar with your cycle for some time now. Memorised it to help me with a case, years ago.”

Molly was about to speak, but stopped herself at the last moment, strongly suspecting that whatever Sherlock might say next was going to horribly spoil the mood. And she was not going to let that happen, not now they’d come this far, now she’d already strayed over to the Dark Side.

She leaned over him, hands on his chest to brace her arms. Sherlock lifted an arm to thread his fingers through her hair, looking at her with an expression that suggested that all his ‘nines’ had come at once.

“A…a story for another occasion perhaps,” he muttered, his voice thick.

“Mm-hm,” Molly agreed. Once again, he was lucky he was so bloody gorgeous - _and_ that she was so far in love with him that she couldn’t see the path back even if she wanted to.

As she bent her head to kiss him, Sherlock surged up to meet her, their lips meeting in an inelegant, urgent manner. Strong arms wrapped around Molly’s waist, and she buried her fingers into his curls as they continued to kiss (another fantasy-turned-reality that she hadn’t yet tired of). She wasn’t sure exactly what had made her think of it, but from her elevated view aboard the Good Ship Sherlock, her eye caught a glimpse of the baby monitor on the bedside table.

“Sherlock?”

“ _Molly_ …” he rumbled, apparently oblivious to her tone of mild concern.

“You… you did switch the monitor on, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” came the mumbled reply, his words reverberating against her neck as his mouth traced a path towards her ear.

“It’s just…I can’t hear anything.”

“She’s asleep,” Sherlock replied, with a tinge of exasperation.

“Yes, but not even her breathing,” Molly insisted. “Listen.”

With obvious reluctance, Sherlock pulled away. They stayed there for a moment, both listening, Sherlock frowning.

Molly took a breath. God, she was about to hate herself beyond all measure.

“I should go and check,” she said, biting down lightly on her lip. “Just… I dunno… just to make sure.”

Sherlock’s eye roll nearly made his pupils disappear from view.

“You’re going to stop _this_ ,” – he gestured to their advanced state of undress and general entanglement of limbs – “to examine a small electrical device, on the off-chance that it’s not functioning properly?”

Molly sighed.

“I’m going to check on _Rosie_ ,” she clarified, clumsily hoisting herself clear of Sherlock and scrambling onto the bed. She heard him emit an audible groan as she did so. But as she started looking around for an old t-shirt to sling on and reinstate her decency, she noticed something… off.

“Sherlock,” she said, turning back to him. “No wonder we can’t hear her - you didn’t even put the monitor in the spare room.”

She picked up the small receiver-type device and waved it for emphasis.

“Yeeesss, I did, Molly,” he replied, with an unjustified note of irritation. “One monitor in that room and one in here – that’s how it works, no?”

 _Oh god_. Molly felt a cold jolt spike through her.

No, it wasn’t possible. There was no earthly possibility that a man considered by most to be a genius could have made quite such a basic oversight.

“They’re not the same!” Molly hissed. “How could you not notice that?”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, brows furrowed.

“The other one has a screen,” he said slowly. “Presumably for reassurance purposes.”

“Yes! For reassuring the parents, Sherlock, not the baby!” she practically shrieked. “Where’s the other monitor, the one with the screen?”

She saw Sherlock blanch slightly.

“In the cot with Rosie,” he replied, lips tight.

“Oh god!” Molly moaned. “Sherlock, we’ve basically just given Rosie a direct view of everything that… that’s going on in here!”

Sherlock had the good grace to look horrified, swallowing hard before bolting out of the bed and streaking (not quite literally, thank god) towards the spare room. Molly threw on her sleep t-shirt and, because she didn’t know quite what to do next, sat on the edge of the bed and waited, wondering whether they were actually going to be able to recapture the mood when Sherlock got returned. She was going to damn well try, anyway; Sherlock was right after all – she _was_ in the middle of her cycle, and it _did_ have an effect on her…bedroom needs.

An inordinately long time seemed to pass while she sat there, twisting the hem of her t-shirt around her finger. Then, the door opened.

“Somebody’s awake,” Sherlock sighed.

Molly looked up to see Sherlock, dressed in her rose-print silk dressing gown (which he’d clearly donned in a hurry to mask his, um, ‘excited’ state) – and carrying Rosie in his arms.

And Rosie looked very refreshed, and very pleased with herself.

It was, by anyone’s standards, Game Over.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Molly said weakly, managing a smile as she got to her feet, and placing a kiss on Rosie’s hand.

Sherlock handed Rosie to her, before retying the sash on the dressing gown, which, Molly imagined no longer served any real purpose (a bucket of cold water had well and truly been thrown over that particular naked flame). 

“It’s fine,” he replied, slightly mournfully. “The monitor had fallen over anyway, so she couldn’t have seen anything. Possibly a bit of, ah, audio…”

Molly looked at him, trying to think back, reassured that they had kept the conversation fairly clean. She sat Rosie on her knee, sweeping some slightly clammy blonde curls back off her forehead, as Sherlock came to sit down next to them, thigh to thigh with Molly. He stretched his arm around her shoulders, resting his chin on the top of her head, and Molly took Sherlock’s hand in hers, in a shared gesture of resignation and consolation.  

Rosie twisted around to look up at them both, and to treat them to a toothy smile, and Molly wondered what on earth this scene must look like to her – or maybe Aunty Molly with cavewoman hair and Uncle Sherlock in a floral kimono seemed completely normal.

Molly kissed Rosie’s forehead, and leaned down closer enough to whisper to her.

“Please don’t tell your daddy.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's carefully planned evening starts to unravel, with a little help from Rosie and Greg...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, slightly later than I'd hoped, but here it is nonetheless! 
> 
> Thanks again to geekmama for beta-ing services and general encouragement (she had more on her plate than usual with this one!)

“Kitchen,” Sherlock said loudly in response to the knock at the open door to 221B.

A moment or two later, Lestrade appeared from around the corner, with a handful of police files and an odd expression on his face. Lestrade had a repertoire of odd expressions, most of which were some variation on ‘confused’, and this was one of them.

“Alright, Sherlock?” he said, nodding.

He was looking between Sherlock, the hob at which he was standing (atop which were two pans) and the kitchen table, which had been cleared of half-completed lab experiments and instead was laden with packets, bottles, kitchen scraps and containers of ingredients.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, watching his friend’s shifting gaze. “Are those the case notes?”

He could have done without this **,** tonight of all nights (particularly as the case sounded likely to be a five at best), but when Molly had called from the morgue an hour ago, she had reminded him of the fact that at the scene of an arrest the previous week, the detective inspector had taken a right hook to the face that had been intended for  _him_. Lestrade hadn’t reacted well to Sherlock’s assertion that he should have anticipated the assault – or **_the_** subsequent, well-intended observation that perhaps age was taking its toll on Lestrade’s reflexes. Sherlock couldn’t very well protest without arousing Molly’s suspicions, so he’d reluctantly agreed to let Lestrade drop in on his way back from Bart’s.

He held out his hand for the files, but Lestrade didn’t oblige; he was too busy surveying the rest of his surroundings. Sherlock suspected he knew where this was going.

“What’s goin’ on?” Lestrade asked, slowly. “This place…it looks…like someone lives here.”

“Which I do…”

“Yeah, but lives here and actually cares about ‘ow it looks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He set the lid down on the pan on the hob, and turned down the heat to a simmer.

“I may have undertaken some light tidying today, yes,” he replied, with a vague waving hand gesture. “Just a little…rearranging.”

Sherlock watched the detective frown and wrinkle his nose, tipping his chin upwards slightly. He’d seen this  _modus operandi_  at any number of crime scenes he’d attended with Lestrade.

“It…smells different, too,” Lestrade continued. “Like…chemicals, but not the type you usually ‘ave in here. You actually been cleaning? Or was that Mrs H?”

“No, that was me also,” Sherlock said, with a small, exasperated sigh.

“You trying to get rid of the smell of somethin’ else?” Lestrade frowned, peering at Sherlock down his nose.

“Like what, exactly?”

“I dunno,” Lestrade replied with a shrug. “Experiment-gone-wrong? Body parts gone off? And yeah, I know about the body parts your missus snags from the morgue for you, Sherlock – I’m savin’ that particular gem of illegality for a rainy day, ‘case I need it as leverage sometime.”

Every so often Lestrade said something that reminded Sherlock that, when it suited him, he could be as much of a jobsworth as the rest of Scotland Yard.

"Those people left their bodies to science," Sherlock said simply. "And they're used for science."

Lestrade snorted.

"Yeah, but they were probably thinkin' about cures for cancer or dementia, not havin' their bits an' pieces set fire to or dissolved in battery acid by a posh bloke in his kitchen."

Sherlock disregarded this specious argument and held out his hand again. This time, Lestrade gave him the files. Sherlock started to flip through the pages, when he was interrupted.

"What's that noise?" Lestrade asked, turning around again.

Sherlock looked up, puffing out his cheeks.

"Rosie, most likely," he replied, cocking an ear. 

Somewhere from within the depths of his flat, he could hear his goddaughter's babble and the scuffing sound of her moving around on her behind or knees.

“Rosie?” Lestrade queried, mouth hanging slightly open. “As in Rosie, John’s little ‘un?”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, scanning the room as though expecting Rosie to spontaneously materialise.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, as patiently as he could manage. “I’m babysitting. Mrs Hudson’s gone to some ghastly matinee with Mr Chatterjee – should be back about five-thirty. Did you happen to see Rosie on your way in?”

Lestrade’s expression shifted again, now conveying an even deeper level of bafflement.

“No. An' if you’re babysittin', shouldn’t you know where she is?” he asked, his brow creasing.

"Hm," Sherlock responded, leaning out into the living room. "She's fine."

Lestrade searched the room again, with an expression that was so perplexed it was an embarrassment to them both.

"You got CCTV set up or somethin'?" he asked.

"Nope," Sherlock replied. "Mirrors."

" _Mirrors_?"

Sherlock pointed to the one on his mantelpiece, then to the one strategically propped on his desk to illustrate (honestly, how did Lestrade miss these things?)

“Not long after John and I moved in here, I worked out that it was possible to get a good view of every room on this floor simply by positioning a series of mirrors in precisely-calculated locations,” he explained.

“Why would you do that?” Lestrade said, face twisted into yet another variation on bewildered, before quickly adding, “Never mind, doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock was about to ask why you would  _not_  do that, but he was aware that a couple of minutes had passed since he last detected a noise from Rosie.

“My point,” he said, setting down the case files on the coffee table, “is that I am allowing Rosie to gain confidence and develop her natural curiosity by independently exploring her surroundings within safe parameters. Something I read.”

Lestrade was gaping at him, a twinkle of apparent amusement in his eyes.

“You read that?”

“In a book, yes. You should try it.”

“Ha ha,” Lestrade called after him, as Sherlock made his way out of the kitchen door.

With the door to the bathroom closed, Rosie’s options were limited, and Sherlock found her sitting at the threshold to his bedroom, pulling off the second of her socks (the first was hanging out of her mouth). Beside her was one of Molly’s fluffy slippers, looking only slightly mangled in appearance. He had spent the better part of half an hour that afternoon moving everything in his bedroom above knee height (his knees, not Rosie’s), and had satisfied himself that the bed was too low for his goddaughter to wriggle underneath – in short, he had created a soundly baby-proof environment, ripe for exploration.

“There you are, Rosamund,” he said, stooping to pick her up. He attempted to gently wrestle the sock from her mouth but gave up when he genuinely feared that he might also pull out one or both of her teeth (John was already concerned that she had so few at eleven months, so she couldn’t really stand to lose any).

“Hiya, darlin’!” Lestrade said, waving to Rosie in a way that made him look distinctly half-witted. It seemed to work for Rosie, though, as she beamed in response, flapping her arm up and down. Babies were so cheaply won over.

“Ten minutes, Lestrade,” Sherlock reminded him, as he carried Rosie back to the kitchen.

“Why? Is that when your favourite programme starts on CBeebies?” Lestrade replied, snorting at his attempt at wit.

Still holding Rosie in one arm, Sherlock leaned over the hob and lifted the lid of one of the pans to check how things were progressing. As he did so, Rosie flapped her hands about in the steam. She was definitely showing early promise in her interest in the physical sciences.

“I have…plans,” Sherlock replied, with the kind of vagueness he hoped would prevent further questioning. Certainly, when other people told him  _they_  had plans, he had very little interest in hearing the finer detail **s**.

He returned to the sitting room, setting Rosie down on the rug and taking up the case files again. While he did so, he clicked on the internal timer in his brain and waited.

“Ohhhh, right!” Lestrade said finally. “You’ve got Molly comin’ over.”

Fourteen seconds. In fairness to Lestrade, at least he wasn’t getting any slower.

“This is all for her,” the detective nodded, gesturing to the living room and what he apparently considered its transformed state.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, keeping his focus on the case files.

“Well, if you thought it was for you, you’ve wildly misjudged the nature of our friendship over the past ten years,” he replied. “And if I have misled you in any way, I can only apologise.”

He heard Lestrade give a quick snort of amusement.

“And all that, in the kitchen,” Lestrade continued. “You’re actually cooking?”

“Yeeess.”

“I mean, actual cooking. Real food. From scratch. You?”

Sherlock sighed. He’d already endured a version of this conversation with Mrs Hudson three hours earlier, although  _her_  disbelief had been accompanied by a peal of laughter and a warning not to burn her house down while she was out.

“Just because I don’t habitually cook, it doesn’t mean that I can’t,” he replied, with as much good grace as he could muster. “It’s actually very relaxing, rewarding even, observing the sequence of chemical reactions taking place. Mrs Armitage thought I had a gift.”

“Oo’s Mrs Armitage?”

“My Home Studies teacher, in prep school,” Sherlock told him. “I made the best cheese soufflé she’d seen in her forty-year teaching career.”

She had been a lot more pleased with the soufflé than Mr Crompton, his chemistry master, had been with Sherlock’s attempted recreation of the very same chemical process under lab conditions (it had, he conceded, caused a temporary evacuation of the east wing of the school). 

“So, what have you done?” Lestrade asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Sherlock paused, eyes flicking up.

“Done?”

“Yeah, you know – what have you done that you now need to apologise to Molly for? Because all this,” – he gestured at the living room and then to the kitchen – “looks like some serious grovelling to me, matey.”

Ugh. That said a lot about the nature of the now-defunct Lestrade marriage.

“Shut up and let me read,” he told Lestrade, dropping into his chair.

“Should I check on Rosie?” Lestrade asked.

“If you like,” Sherlock said. He leant forward far enough to see the mirror positioned on the shelf above the kitchen counter. “She’s fine, though.”

He was granted exactly forty seconds before the next interruption.

“’Ere, Sherlock?” Lestrade said, leaning around the kitchen door from the hallway. “Rosie’s got something I’m not sure she’s meant to ‘ave.”

“Is it alive?” Sherlock sighed.

“No-”

“Is it in any way lethal or likely to cause injury?”

“No,” Lestrade responded, with a tinge of irritation of his own. “It’s one of those little ring boxes, the velvet-covered ones. I’ll take it off her just in case it snaps shut on her fingers.”

Sherlock barely heard the last clause in that sentence, such was the immediate, deafening roar of blood to his ears, accompanied by an icy jolt of horror. Sending case notes flying, he scrambled to his feet and skidded through the kitchen, almost colliding with Lestrade as he flew into the hallway.

“W-where is it?” he managed.

“I was just about to get it when you-”

Ring box. Lestrade had said ‘ring box’ – no mention of anything else. Sherlock got to his knees on the floor as quickly as he could, observing the slightly startled look on his goddaughter’s face as he came to land in front of her. In fact, for a moment, it looked as though tears were inevitable.

“Rosie?” Sherlock said, in as calm and measured a tone as he could manage. “Can Uncle Sherlock please have the box?”

Rosie gave it up surprisingly cooperatively, apparently now more fascinated by the strange expression of nausea on her godfather’s face.

Fingers trembling, Sherlock gripped the ring box and eased open the hinged lid.

Oh god.

Tears may have been averted with Rosie, but very possibly not altogether.

“What?” Lestrade demanded.

Oh god.

Sherlock snatched up Rosie and thrust her at the detective, whose aged reflexes at least enabled him  _not_  to drop a baby spontaneously thrown at him. He then dropped to the floor again, starting to feel around the hall carpet, fingers spreading in the vain hope of making contact with something small and metallic and so incredibly,  _incredibly_  vital.

“Sherlock, what-?”

“It’s empty!” Sherlock barked, without pausing in his hunt.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “I figured it…ohhhh, gotcha - it’s not supposed to be empty.”

“Is it possible to buy a Detective Inspector badge online as easily as a fake degree?” Sherlock snapped. “Of course it’s not supposed to be empty! Who keeps empty jewellery boxes lying around?”

“All right, keep your ‘air on,” Lestrade replied, tickling Rosie’s tummy to try to reassure her about her godfather’s unconventional behaviour. “What ‘ave you lost?”

“Something essential, something irreplaceable!” Sherlock bellowed back at him.

He was now lying prostrate on the carpet, so his eyes could search for anything interrupting the horizon of the floor.

“Yeah, but  _what_?”

“My maternal grandmother’s engagement ring!” he all but yelped. Why was he having to spell this out to a thirty-year veteran of the London Metropolitan Police?

“Why’ve you got your grandmother’s engagement ring?” Lestrade queried, brow furrowed.

“Because I’m in the middle of a charming game of hunt-the-heirloom with the ghost of my late grandmother,” Sherlock spat back. “She was never very playful in life, but she’s really making up for lost time now. Greg, when was the last time  _you_  had a diamond ring in your possession, hm?”

He saw Lestrade shrug.

“When Debs gave hers back to me.”

Sherlock sighed.

“The time  _before_  that.”

“Well, I s’pose when I…OH! Bloody hell! You’re going to ask Molly to marry you?!”

“That was the plan, yes,” Sherlock replied, acknowledging that the words alone seemed to send a tingle right through him.

“Oh, congratulations, mate! That’s bloody fantastic news!”

Sherlock fixed him with a stare.

“Thank you, but that’s a little premature considering a) I haven’t asked her yet, and b) because as things currently stand, when I  _do_  ask her, I’ll be presenting her with a length of copper wiring fashioned into a loop rather than an _actual_  engagement ring. So, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there and look decorative?”

A decision was taken to bring the highchair into the hallway and to confine Rosie to it while they carried out their search. Sherlock piled a heap of garish, plastic baby-distractions on the highchair tray and hoped it would buy them some time. Rosie looked up at him with a beatific expression.

The panic was rising now, his throat suddenly dry as parchment. How could this have happened? He had been so careful to move anything hazardous or of consequence out of harm’s way. Now, his entire plan was in serious jeopardy – not to mention the slow death he could look forward to at the hands of his mother.

Okay - he simply had to focus, had to approach this as he would any other case that involved an item or artefact that had been mislaid or purloined. Yes, it was a tiny item, but it hadn’t left the flat, and Rosie could only move so quickly, so there were certain boundaries within which it had to be.

But however much he tried to rationalise the situation, the grip of panic couldn’t be relaxed. He started with the ring’s original hiding place; it had been secured by masking tape to the underside of the bed, where it met with the headboard. A piece of tape hung pathetically from the wood, but Sherlock’s meticulous fingertip search of the carpet around the bed turned up nothing. When he’d done that, he patted down the duvet before carefully lifting it – and the pillows – from the bed to check underneath, and down the sides of the mattress.

Lestrade was searching, too; however much Sherlock disliked the idea of anyone aside from Molly invading his personal sanctum (so to speak), he wasn’t exactly flush with options or blessed with time. Out in the hallway, Rosie was babbling, and plastic was being rattled and crashed against plastic.

They continued their search in the hallway, and then retraced their steps back through the kitchen and into the living room, still without success.

“Ere, Sherlock?” Lestrade said, hauling himself to his feet. “You don’t think Rosie coulda swallowed it, do you?”

Sherlock popped his head up at the far side of the kitchen table.

“Don’t be ridiculous – it’s a substantial diamond.”

He saw Lestrade roll his eyes at this.

“Look, back when I was in uniform, I saw loads of cases involving people’s kids swallowing weird stuff,” Lestrade continued. “You’d be surprised ‘ow easily some things can go down, even accidentally. I’m just sayin’.”

Within seconds, Sherlock had Rosie out of the highchair and on his knee in the living room, and both men were trying to coax her into opening her mouth. She stared up at them, initially with amusement and then, after a minute or so, with a look of mild fear. Lestrade tried his repertoire of ridiculous facial expressions, but they ended abruptly when he attempted to sweep his finger into Rosie’s mouth.

“Ow! Christ!”

“She has teeth,” Sherlock replied, irritably.

“Yeah, really?” the detective replied, shaking his injured finger.

“Oh, what’s the point anyway?” Sherlock sighed, allowing Rosie to return to the floor. “It’s not as though she’d be sucking on it like a lemon sherbet – if it’s gone, it’s gone. And if she felt any discomfort at the time, she’s clearly fine now.”

“Yeah, well p’raps letting Rosie ‘explore her surroundings’ wasn’t such a great idea,” Lestrade said, still grasping his index finger with his other hand.

_Oh, they were going down that road now, were they?_

“I wasn’t deliberately leaving out small, expensive choking hazards for her to follow like a breadcrumb trail,” he replied in defence of himself. “And it’s not as though she can even stand up on her own.”

With startling timing, Sherlock glanced up and saw Rosie standing by John’s old chair, holding onto the arm with a casual air.

“Why didn’t John tell me she could do that?” Sherlock spluttered. “I mean, of all the-”

“I dunno why you didn’t just put the ring in your sock drawer like everyone else,” Lestrade said, collapsing back on the sofa.

“I try to minimise the disturbance to my sock drawer,” he replied, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees.

There was a brief pause before Lestrade spoke again.

“’Ere, what did you make for dessert?”

Sherlock looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye.

“An egg custard tart, but what relevance could that possibly have to this situation?”

“You coulda baked the ring into that instead,” Lestrade said, nudging Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh marvellous, then Molly could have swallowed the ring instead of Rosie!”

He watched Rosie cruising from her father’s old chair to the coffee table, and then over to his chair, where she seemed particularly pleased with the scratchy noise she could produce with her fingernails on the leather. If nothing else, this whole episode was causing him to wonder about the suitability of 221B as a family home, something that couldn’t have been further from his mind when Mrs Hudson offered him the flat all those years ago **,** but which was now of critical importance (or at least he hoped it would be in the near future).

“In theory, how long do you think before…nature takes its course?” he ventured to Lestrade, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Rosie’s lower half, aware that he was grimacing slightly as he said it. One thing he hadn’t researched about babies was the speed of their digestive systems.

Lestrade snorted.

“Dunno – I’d rather not think about it, thanks,” he replied. “But probably a fair while after Rosie’s gone home. And it’s going to be difficult to explain to John why you want to go home with them and change all her nappies for the next twenty-four hours.”

Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair and emitted a low moan.

“Look, you don’t even know if she did actually swallow it,” Lestrade offered, patting his shoulder.  “It’s gonna be a waiting game.”

Waiting games were fine when they involved the movement and operations of criminal networks, but not when they involved engagement rings that were due to be presented to the love of one’s life in a few short hours.  

“Wait a moment!” Sherlock said suddenly, his head snapping up. “We  _can_  know for sure! Of course! There’s an x-ray scanner in the entrance to Scotland Yard, is there not?”

Lestrade laughed (why was he laughing?)

“We are not traipsing all the way down to the Yard so we can put John’s daughter through the x-ray machine!” he blurted. “And before you say it, they’re not gonna let you do it at Bart’s either, however much they love Molly down there. Anyway, you wouldn’t ‘ave time to do all that before she gets here.”

Sherlock had to accept that on this score, Lestrade was – annoyingly – right.

“You might just have to tell ‘er, mate,” the detective continued. “Or just go ahead and ask her empty-handed. What are the chances she’s gonna say no to you?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Would you agree to marry – and possibly bear the children of – a man who allowed a baby to ingest a piece of jewellery?”

Lestrade grinned.

“Oh, I dunno, I might - you’ve got a nice arse, according to Donovan, and you’re worth a few bob. I could probably do a lot worse.”

Now Sherlock didn’t know what was more alarming – the loss of the engagement ring, the idea that Lestrade considered him a catch, or the knowledge that Sally Donovan had firstly looked at, and secondly, favourably appraised his arse. He didn’t have long to dwell on it, though, because suddenly, apparently from nowhere, Rosie started to cry – no, not just cry,  _howl_.

It seemed to take both him and Lestrade by surprise, both of them leaping up and stumbling towards where she sat on the floor by Sherlock’s chair.

“Oh god, I knew it!” Sherlock cried. “She’s in pain!”

He lifted Rosie into his arms, but physical comfort made no difference. He tried to check her mouth again, searching for signs that the ring might have grazed her throat on the way down, and then lifted her cardigan, gently pressing his fingers against her tummy, trying to establish if any area hurt more than others. But all she did was cry louder, fists clenched and head thrown back in distress.

“’Ere, what about this?” Lestrade said, appearing beside them carrying the packet of maize baby snacks that had been left on the desk. He offered one to Rosie and, once she could focus through her rage, she took hold of it and crammed it into her mouth. Almost immediately, she calmed down and the sobs were replacing with the sound of smacking lips.

“She’s just hangry, that’s all,” he explained. “Donovan gets like that all the time – I’ve learnt to always have biscuits and crisps in the glovebox just in case.”

Sherlock was just starting to wonder just to what extent ‘hunger’ might explain Donovan’s entire personality when he heard the sound of the front door opening downstairs. It was too early for Mrs Hudson, John was (of course) at the clinic, and the only other person who had their own set of door keys was…Molly.

It was all over.

His plans were in smouldering ruins.

Instead of welcoming the woman he loved with home-cooked food, a tidy flat worthy of her presence, and the token of love that would hopefully seal the promise he made several weeks ago, what did he have? A flat that had been turned upside down, a Scotland Yard detective who should have buggered off an hour earlier, and an infant who might or might not have consumed the aforementioned love-token.

Sherlock looked down at Rosie in his arms, now consuming her third or fourth maize snack; there was a smattering of savoury-smelling orange dust on the shoulder and lapel of his suit jacket. What more was there t to say or do?

“Hi!”

Molly’s bright, cheerful greeting rang out from the doorway. Sherlock had been waiting for this moment since he opened his eyes that morning, and now – despite how beautiful she was, and despite the now-familiar swoop in his stomach - it was all he could do to muster a weak smile.

She looked a little surprised to see Greg, but smiled warmly, hesitating just slightly before coming over to where Sherlock stood, giving Rosie a quick kiss before reaching up to plant another quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“Everything okay?” she asked, looking between the two men and adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

“Yes, fine, hello Molly,” Sherlock said, in hindsight rather too quickly.

“Right,” she replied, her uncertain gaze lingering on him for a moment.  “Good. Listen, I just found this on the floor outside Martha’s flat.”

Molly held up her hand and, held between her thumb and forefinger was…a certain eighteen-carat gold, Old European cut, diamond engagement ring.

Sherlock felt all of the colour drain from his face. He daren’t even look in Lestrade’s direction.

“It looks like an antique,” Molly continued, peering at the ring. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. I thought at first it might be Martha’s, but then I remembered her telling me the story of how she sold hers to buy her first Aston Martin.”

She gave a short laugh, but when neither Sherlock nor Lestrade joined in, she frowned momentarily and went on.

“Anyway, then I thought it could have been dropped by a client,” she said. “Someone would definitely miss a ring like this.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, then cleared his throat lightly; he realised he was staring at Molly, and it could only go on so long before it just became weird. Somehow, without him even noticing (and probably while he was cooking), Rosie had obviously managed to find the ring, crawl out of the living room door and get enough momentum to throw it through the safety gate and down the stairwell.

“It…it doesn’t belong to a client, Molly,” Sherlock said, his voice coming out as little more than hoarse whisper.

“Oh. Okay,” she replied, with a confused smile. “Then who…?”

Sherlock licked his lips.

“It’s…ah…it’s mine, actually,” he replied. “Well, not mine exactly – sort of mine temporarily, at least I  _hope_  temporarily; well, either way I suppose it will be temporary, it’s not like I would keep it, but-”

“Oh, well if it’s yours, it’s a good thing I found it,” Molly said, holding out her hand.

Sherlock took the ring, reflexively. He thought about pocketing it and trying to salvage the whole thing later that evening, but if it all felt strange now, it was bound to feel even more bizarre then – and entirely devoid of romance.

“The thing is, Molly,” he began, closing his eyes momentarily. “When I say it’s mine, it’s…I was actually hoping to…give it away.”

Molly continued looking at him for a long moment, and Sherlock watched as her expression slowly shifted from bewilderment to something more serious; he saw her sharp intake of breath as the meaning behind his words sunk in. She stared at him, mouth open, eyebrows slightly raised.

“I…er…I think it’s time I was going,” Lestrade said, cutting through the stunned silence.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, his eyes still on Molly. “The poison was likely introduced via the building’s water supply. Should be easy enough to prove.”

“Right,” Lestrade replied. “Er…thanks. I’ll look into that.”

The detective said a quick goodbye to Molly, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he headed for the door.

“Look on the bright side, eh, Sherlock,” he said, turning briefly and giving a quick wink. “At least you won’t have to get that thing professionally-cleaned after all.”

Lestrade could have exited out of the living room window and Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed. In his arms, Rosie was squirming, and so he gently set her down on the floor where she seemed to want to be.

When he looked up, there was a small smiling playing at the corners of Molly’s lips.

He took a breath.

“Molly, I…I had a thing planned,” he began. “I’ve been planning it all day – well, strictly speaking I’ve been planning it for a couple of months – so if you like, we can forget the events of the past five minutes, and very shortly I can give Rosie to Mrs Hudson and then we can have dinner, and then I’ll get to the reason why I have in my possession a one-hundred-and-thirty-year old diamond ring.”

He cleared his throat again, adding “Admittedly, for a while there **,** it wasn’t actually in my possession, but-”

“You should do it now.”

Molly’s voice was clear, resolute. He looked up just in time to see the smile on her face creeping wider.

“What?”

“Now. Here,” she continued, more softly this time. “That’s…that’s what I want, Sherlock.”

There was a soft thud as she dropped her bag to the floor beside her, and she took another step towards him.

“Are…are you sure?”

Molly nodded briskly, her lips pulled together in a smile.

 “Yes,” she replied, looking up at Sherlock, drawing him in with those deep brown eyes. “Because if you don’t, I might think that you’re only asking because I’m pregnant.”

And with that, the ring dropped from his nerveless hand, bounced across the floor and landed in front of a waiting Rosie.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone unfamiliar with CBeebies, it's the BBC's channel for pre-schoolers - full of bright colours, relentless smiles and compulsory educational content!


	7. In Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's good intentions have an unexpected knock-on effect for his Big Day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to geekmama again for the reassuring once-over before posting. 
> 
> And I hope indigoace feels reassured that Rosie did *not* get her hands on the engagement ring again at the end of the previous chapter! :-D

It felt like a reason to celebrate. For almost ten straight weeks, Molly had felt like she was now only distantly related to the human race, dragging herself around Bart’s in a semi-comatose fug and crawling into bed the moment she arrived home from work. During those glorious weeks of early pregnancy, almost every single smell she inhaled (and she  _really_  tried hard to breathe through her mouth) had made her stomach lurch, and just the suggestion of having something to eat was enough to make her want to throw the nearest solid object at the proposer. Which, to his misfortune, was usually Sherlock.

And it turned out - with the possible exception of farmers and perfumers - that she had the worst job in the world for strong smells. The lab was marginally better than the morgue, but suddenly, chemicals and cleaning products that she hardly noticed before were amplified to unbearable effect. It was lucky, really, that Mike – father to a fleet of little Stamfords – was so understanding and said nothing about the emergency kidney bowl that Molly had to carry with her at all times.

But now, she was hungry! Not force-down-some-dry-crackers hungry, but actual enthusiasm for a proper meal – and, as a bonus, she felt she had the energy to stay up beyond six pm and eat one, too. It felt incredible. Having had to spend the past ten weeks reminding herself (often while hunched over the toilet bowl) that she was happy, she now actually just  _felt_  it. Not that she wasn’t still tired, and not that she felt ready for an Tudor-style banquet, but now that the worst had – very suddenly – passed, everything seemed more manageable.

Just as well, because the countdown to the wedding now stood at only ten days. Naively (well,  _now_  she knew it was naively), she had assumed she’d feel fine again by the start of the second trimester, in plenty of time for the wedding. Although, Molly reflected, she probably wouldn’t have been the first bride to vomit in a floral display.

When she had arrived home with her appetite still intact, she had sent a text to Sherlock while getting changed, asking him whether he could bring some dinner. He had responded almost right away.

**Dinner for you? - SH**

She had smiled, picturing his face as he contemplated whether he had understood correctly.

**For both of us – Mx**

She had wondered whether that was still open to interpretation.

**You and me, I mean. The baby has stolen enough from me already – Mx**

A brief pause before he replied again.

**Plain pasta, or dry toast? – SH**

Molly had had enough of both for a lifetime, and quickly tapped out a response.

**Proper food please - Mx**

Sherlock had responded by saying he’d be home around seven-thirty. He had been deep into a case for nearly a week, and between his long days and her early nights, it felt to Molly as though they’d only had a few, snatched conversations in that time. He’d always insisted on returning to her flat, though, however late it was; Molly would be aware of the dip in the mattress, the arm pulling her close (but more gently than before), the kiss on her cheek or temple. One thing she missed was the woody scent of Sherlock’s aftershave but, given that for a while it had the unfortunate effect of violently turning her stomach, he had stopped wearing it. That was something else that could now go back to normal.

Normal. They had barely worked out what ‘normal’ was for them when Molly had discovered she was pregnant; it was planned, of course, but she had assumed that there would be more rehearsal time before the real thing – and from Sherlock’s reaction, it had been clear he thought so, too. Nearly ten years of a steadily evolving friendship had suddenly – in the space of a few weeks - accelerated into a lifetime romantic commitment, and although the course was set, the practical details were still a bit lacking. Although Molly couldn’t help noticing that Sherlock now used the word ‘home’ in relation to her flat, which perhaps said something about his ideas for their future.

It was shortly before seven-thirty when she heard the key in her front door, but the noises that followed told Molly that something had clearly happened between their earlier exchange of texts and the present moment. She could hear Sherlock’s voice, low and rumbling, followed by the dull thump of something being deposited on the hallway floor.

Molly’s curiosity got the better of her fatigued limbs, and she hauled herself off the sofa to pad the few feet to the living room door. Before she’d crossed that small distance, though, she heard something else, something she knew so well as to be unmistakable.

“Hi!” she said, taking in the scene in front of her.

“Ah, yes, hello,” Sherlock replied, looking up with slight surprise at seeing her standing there.

“You’re, um, you’re not alone,” Molly said, brow creasing into a frown, as she waited for the explanation she hoped would come.

“That is, ah…yes, you are correct, Molly, I am not alone,” he said, stooping to allow another bag to drop off his arm and onto the floor.

His other arm was engaged in the balancing of their goddaughter, who had her coat over her pyjamas and her face buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The noises that Molly had recognised were the whimpering whines of one very tired Rosie Watson.   

“Is everything okay?” Molly asked, moving to support Rosie’s weight while Sherlock shrugged out of his Belstaff. “Is John all right?”

“That would depend on who you ask,” Sherlock replied.

He paused, repositioning Rosie so that he could lean down to meet Molly, capturing her lips in a brief but melting kiss (just because these greetings were now commonplace didn’t mean they would ever become less amazing for it). His hand drifted down to her waist, smiling, as his thumb strayed a little further to graze over the small swell of her belly.

Molly unzipped Rosie’s coat, their goddaughter protesting a little at being manhandled; she did look slightly flushed, but removing layers would probably help.

“John would tell you he was fine,” Sherlock continued. “But John probably  _wouldn’t_  tell you that he fell asleep in a chair at a crime scene yesterday, and again in the cab today – twice. He said something about Rosie being unsettled over the past few nights. Given that he has a shift at the clinic first thing tomorrow, I made the offer to take her overnight…”

Molly watched his expression change to one of slight uncertainty.

“Is…is that okay…?” he asked, hurriedly adding, “I can take of her; I know you need to rest.”

In all the years she’d known him, she had never doubted that Sherlock was capable of ordinary human emotion (even when he was doing his best to defy that belief), but the proof just kept on coming. Tired though Molly was, delicate though she was feeling, she could hardly be annoyed at such a demonstration of empathy, not only towards her but for his friend, too.

“Yes, of course it’s fine, Sherlock,” she told him, kissing Rosie. “And I’m not going to break. Although please tell me you brought something to eat as well?”

He stooped to pick up the carrier bag he had left by the door, handing it to her.

“Courtesy of Angelo,” he said. “Although he suggested something tomato rather than cream-based – gentler on the stomach. Wouldn’t want your memories of your favourite carbonara to be sullied forever.”

Sherlock offered to put Rosie to bed (her travel cot now permanently set up in Molly’s spare room), and Molly kissed her goddaughter goodnight before going off to unpack the offerings from Sherlock’s favourite restaurant. As she did so, her thoughts returned to John, and the nagging worries that had kept resurfacing. They had celebrated Rosie’s first birthday a few weeks ago, and John had thrown himself into it full-force, but Molly could tell that it was a defence mechanism; if he slowed down for a moment, that tide of grief could claim him again. She couldn’t help but worry, too, that the upcoming wedding might not be helping matters, that despite John being delighted for them, it was always going to be bittersweet.

Molly could hear Rosie’s protests coming from the spare bedroom, and she wondered whether the little girl had been picking up on her father’s mood. Her Wednesday afternoon babysitting had been hard work, too, with all the usual distractions failing to placate Rosie - although Molly had attributed that to the fact that she herself had felt utterly crap, and hardly in the mood for play.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock appeared in the room in his shirtsleeves and socked feet.

“Sounds like she put up a fight,” Molly commented, setting their plates down on the little kitchen table. “Is she okay?”

“Hm,” he replied, taking a seat opposite. “Apparently, being a baby is exhausting.”

“This smells amazing,” Molly grinned, winding some linguini around her fork.

“Definitely feeling better, then?” Sherlock said, eyeing her as he rolled up his sleeves.

She nodded, savouring the first mouthful of tomato-and-herb magnificence.

“Might not be the only appetite that I’m getting back, either…” she ventured, slowly raising her eyebrow at him.

“I see…” Sherlock replied, pursing his lips as though digesting that information along with his meal.

“I mean, I’m not suggesting you throw me on the table right now-”

“-that _would_ be a waste of perfectly good pasta-”

“-but, you know, maybe later, and not involving the table…”

She saw Sherlock’s mouth pull into a brief smirk.

“Message received and understood,” Sherlock replied. “You merely have to say the word, Molly.”

All of a sudden, Molly wanted to get through dinner a lot more quickly. It wasn’t that she hadn’t _wanted_ to during the past couple of months (and there hadn’t been a _complete_ drought), but a permanent feeling of motion sickness wasn’t particularly compatible with sex. Plus, it would have been the ultimate insult to the man she loved had she fallen asleep during.

Any thoughts of plans for the evening were, however, interrupted halfway through the meal by cries from the spare bedroom. With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock answered the call, returning five minutes later with a red-faced Rosie, who was howling and refusing to be soothed.

“She was fairly insistent that she doesn’t want to be in bed,” Sherlock said, with a note of apology. He was holding Rosie slightly at arm’s length, to avoid the furious waving of limbs.

Molly got up from the table and felt Rosie’s head and tummy with the back of her hand.

“She does feel hot,” she murmured, trying to recall where she put the infant thermometer.

“As would I if I had I been screaming blue murder for ten minutes,” Sherlock grumbled, struggling to contain Rosie on his lap.

“Rosie, sweetheart, does something hurt?” Molly asked, stroking their goddaughter’s head.

“Not sure she’s in the mood for rational conversation, Molly,” Sherlock replied. “Or, in fact, conversation of any kind - that being the way of babies.”

Molly rolled her eyes. It was all very well Sherlock treating this situation with sarcasm, but in five months’ time they would have their own irrational being to contend with.

“It’s probably her teeth,” she said, trying to peer into Rosie’s mouth. “She might be getting her molars.”

“Yes, well, I’m not volunteering for that assignment,” Sherlock told her. “I’ve fallen for that one before.”

It did seem that Molly was the only adult in Rosie’s life who hadn’t found out the hard way that Rosie had new teeth coming through. Molly fetched the gel teething ring from the freezer, and encouraged it into Rosie’s mouth – livid, Rosie yanked it out and threw it on the floor, using this affront as an excuse to ramp up the screaming.

“Isn’t there some sort of pink goop that’s good for this sort of thing?” Sherlock enquired, above the din. “John says it’s like crack for babies.”

Not a particularly tasteful joke for John to have made to a former drug-addict, Molly reflected, as she trotted off in search of the Calpol. She offered both the medicine and a beaker of water to Rosie, who slapped the beaker from Molly’s hand in rage, but greeted the first taste of strawberry-flavoured paracetamol like a long-lost friend. She gave Molly a look, as though to say _finally!_ , before calmly accepting the beaker of water, too.

Not long afterwards, Rosie fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms on the sofa, and Molly was able to transfer her goddaughter back to the cot, pulling the blanket only up to her middle in the hope that she would cool down a little.

Once she’d carefully pulled the door behind her, she found Sherlock leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom.

“About your proposal earlier this evening, Molly…” he said in a musing tone, his eyes narrowed as though in thought.

Molly smiled, closing the distance between them until Sherlock’s hands reached out to take her around the waist. He broke into a smile, too, before leaning down to kiss her gently – too gently for Molly’s liking at that moment.

“Sherlock, I promise I’m not going to break,” she whispered.

“I realise that, Molly, but... _umhh!_ -”

She had decided she needed to show him how she wanted to be kissed, and once Sherlock got the idea, he seemed happy to oblige. One of them found the bedroom door handle, and very soon they were on the other side of it, moving across the room in tandem until the backs of Sherlock’s legs made contact with the bed and he was forced to sit. She could work with this, Molly thought, wickedly; there really was no downside to having Sherlock Holmes in this position.

A shriek erupted from across the hallway.

The initial shock tore Molly away from their long-overdue pursuit, and once it had worn off, she sighed and pulled her jumper back over her head, noting that the anguish on Sherlock’s face pretty much mirrored her feelings at that moment. She scuttled back to the spare room to find Rosie kneeling up in the travel cot, damp hair plastered to her forehead, mouth open in paroxysms of distress. The little girl’s hands were outstretched in desperation and, whispering reassurances, Molly lifted Rosie into her arms.

No wonder she was so distraught - she was burning up.

Quickly, Molly sat them both down on the tub chair in the corner, holding Rosie close while she unfastened her sleeping bag to try to cool her down. No doubt drawn by the relentlessness of Rosie’s crying, a tousled Sherlock appeared behind her, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders.

“What can I do?” he asked, blinking in the dim light of the room.

“She needs water – and a wet cloth, too. There’s some in the drawer in the bathroom.”

Within moments, Sherlock had returned, by which time Molly had stripped off Rosie’s sleeping bag completely. The cool, damp cloth was met with resistance, but Molly pressed it to Rosie’s forehead anyway, then to her cheeks, and eventually Rosie calmed down enough to have a few sips of water.

Sherlock perched on the top of the pine drawers a few feet away, looking slightly rattled, while Rosie gulped and hiccupped her way through her water.

“I…suppose we’ve got all this to come,” he said, almost gravely.

Like her, Sherlock had probably been contemplating the extremes of being a parent – the amazing highs and the crippling fears – rather than the in-between stuff; the interrupted nights, the uncertainties, the general muddling-through. The child Molly was vaguely forming a fanciful picture of, complete with Sherlock’s curls and her nose, was going to steal their hearts and then put them through the wringer.

“She’s going to hate this, but I think I may as well change her now,” Molly sighed. “She might be more comfortable, especially if she gets a bit of cool air on her.”

Surprisingly, Rosie didn’t protest a great deal when Sherlock lowered her onto the changing mat (he was already insisting that Molly didn’t put strain on her body), or when Molly started to wiggle her pyjama trousers off her legs. It must have been a relief; the pyjamas were damp with sweat.

Molly took the new nappy from Sherlock’s outstretched hand and was about to unfasten the old one when she stopped.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Could you...could you just put the lamp on for a minute?”

He did as he was told, angling the glare away from Rosie’s face.

“Does that-?” Molly paused, gently pushing up Rosie’s onesie to expose her tummy. “Sherlock, it looks like…hang on.”

She gently eased Rosie’s arms out of the onesie, and then the onesie over her head. Once Rosie was lying there in just her nappy, there was no mistaking it.

“Molly, is that-?”

“Um, yep,” she sighed, smoothing her hand over Rosie’s head. “I’m pretty sure that’s chickenpox.”

Rosie was temporarily distracted from her discomfort by the sight of both of her godparents carefully scrutinizing the handful of pink spots scattered across her body and legs.

 “We should probably let John know,” Molly sighed, sitting back against the cot.

Sherlock frowned.

“We _could_ do that,” he replied. “But then he’ll insist on coming to collect her, when there’s really no need. Everyone gets chickenpox as a child, so this is just normal, yes?”

Molly sighed, nodding. He was right in a sense – there was very little John could do that they weren’t already doing, and if they called him now, it would mean another sleepless night for him.

“We’ll need to keep an eye on her,” she said.

Sherlock nodded, buttoning his shirt (and with it, finally snuffing out Molly’s last lingering hopes).

“That’s fine, I-”

He stopped.

“Is it safe for you to be exposed to chickenpox?”

Molly reached out to stop Rosie in the act of trying to escape from the changing mat.

“I had it the year I started school, so it’s fine – the baby and I should both have immunity.”

Sherlock was still frowning as he tucked his shirt back into his trousers (which seemed an unnecessary formality at this time of night).

“Yes, but isn’t it possible to contract it for a second time?”

“It’s incredibly rare, Sherlock,” Molly said, hoping she could do something about the troubled look on his face. “Honestly, I’ll be fine - we’ll both be fine. Let’s just get Rosie to bed, hm?”

A short while later, Rosie had surrendered to sleep again, this time dressed only in a short-sleeved onesie and covered by only a light blanket. Molly suspected that she’d just cried herself out for the time being and would probably demand their attention again in a couple of hours. Sleep was beginning to sound like a good idea to Molly, too, and when she left Rosie’s room, she went straight to hers (theirs?) and dug around for her own pyjamas. When she looked up, the sight of Sherlock – apparently materializing from nowhere in the doorway – made her jump.

“Sherlock-”

“I’m going to take Rosie back to Baker Street with me,” he said, his brow furrowed in thought. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it would be better all round. However small the risk, I couldn’t live with myself if you became ill or anything happened to the baby.”

Molly sighed, taking a couple of steps towards him

“That’s very sweet, but you really don’t have to,” she told him.  

“Noooo, but I love you and, therefore, I want to,” he replied, reaching out to draw Molly closer to him. “Besides, it’s been a while since Rosie and I have spent any quality time together.”

Molly snorted.

“Wasn’t the last time when you let her roam freely around the flat and then thought she’d swallowed my engagement ring?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well, I never promised John and Mary that I’d be a very _good_ godfather,” he said. “They were broadly aware that I was only in it for the cake.”

Molly arched up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

“You are a bloody brilliant godfather,” she said, grinning as she pulled away. “I wouldn’t have let you knock me up if you weren’t.”

At this, she could have sworn that Sherlock’s ears turned slightly pink.

“I’m sure Rosie and I will muddle through,” he said. “Anyway, I’m fairly certain that John would have left his daughter with Wiggins if it meant he could get a full night’s sleep.”

He started to pick up his jacket and shoes.

“You’re not going right now?” Molly almost yelped.

“You shouldn’t be exposed any longer than necessary,” Sherlock replied. “Varicella can be caught simply by being in the same room as someone who is infected.”

“You were Googling that when I was putting Rosie to bed, weren’t you?” Molly said, narrowing her eyes at him.

Sherlock gave her that _I can neither confirm nor deny_ look, the one he used when he didn’t want to lie to her yet didn’t like what he was going to have to admit to.

“Sherlock, we only just got her to sleep,” Molly reasoned. “Look, just stay here tonight, okay. You can leave early tomorrow, and Rosie and I don’t even need to cross paths in the morning if you really don’t want us to.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed somewhere on the bedroom carpet. Finally, he took a breath and looked up.

“This is because you want me to throw you on the dining table, isn’t it?”

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but thought better of it, settling instead on her own _I can neither nor deny look_ , before picking up her pyjamas and heading for the bathroom.

 

0000000000

Three days later, Molly was perched at the bench in the lab, surrounded by the various components of her lunch, and working through some of the last-minute things that needed to be done before the wedding. It still hardly seemed real to be reading RSVPs addressed to her and Sherlock, to see their names side-by-side on emails from florists, caterers and the registrar’s office at the Old Marylebone Town Hall.

She was just about to text Sherlock to see whether he had an opinion about chair covers (it seemed unlikely), when a text arrived from him. No message, just an image. Molly clicked on it and zoomed, frowning when she realised what she was looking at.

**Oh no. I thought Rosie was over the worst? - Mx**

All the photo showed was a small, indeterminate expanse of skin, puckered with pink spots. John was going to be gutted if Rosie was still coming out in spots; he was already apologizing, needlessly, for how their unofficial flower-girl was going to look in the wedding pictures.

Her phone vibrated on the bench.

**So it is what it looks like, then? - SH**

Molly frowned, tapping out a response.

**Yeah. But at least she’s not feeling so unwell now. John says her temperature’s back to normal – Mx**

There was a short pause before he replied again.

**Molly, you have failed to recognise the inside of your fiancé’s forearm – SH**

Molly read the words and gave an audible gasp; this was definitely something she hadn’t seen coming. She took a moment to consider the most tactful thing to say in response.

**Is it bad? – Mx**

**I once caught body-lice from an old mattress in a doss house in Wanstead. This is worse – SH**

When her shift ended, Molly took a cab over to Baker Street via a pharmacy. She had received live text-updates on the progression of Sherlock’s condition throughout the afternoon, although thankfully there were no further photographs. She had explained to him that he probably caught chickenpox from Rosie much earlier in the week, before she even came out in a rash, but this made little difference to the patient.

She found Sherlock lying on the sofa in his pyjama trousers and dressing gown, actually catching him in the act of angrily scratching the back of his neck. When he turned around, Molly heard herself gasp again before immediately feeling guilty and trying to convert the gasp into a greeting. It didn’t work.

“I know – I look hideous,” he said, piteously.

Molly crossed the room and crouched beside him.

“No, you don’t,” she told him, all the while taking in the constellation of chickenpox across his face and neck. “You’re just very, very unlucky to have got this for a second time, Sherlock.”

He darted a look at her, before clearing his throat.

“Actually, it turns out that I, in fact, have not had chickenpox before,” he said, with a slight scowl. “My mother confirmed this by text this afternoon. Apparently, Mycroft had it before I was born, and I somehow managed to avoid it throughout school. Why on earth wouldn’t she have told me this before? Parents should have to hand over a full dossier containing this sort of information when their offspring reach adulthood. I fully intend to with our children.”

Molly felt her eyebrows rise spontaneously at his use of the word ‘children’ rather than ‘child’, but it probably wasn’t the best time to discuss that.

“Anyway, I brought you some stuff from Boots,” she said, reaching into her bag. “Some calamine lotion, and this oatmeal stuff you put in the bath – it’s meant for babies, but…”

“I resent that implication, Molly,” Sherlock snapped. “I feel utterly wretched, I’m scratching like a dog with fleas, and these damn spots are everywhere!”

Molly bit down on a smile.

“Everywhere?” she asked mildly.

Sherlock fixed her with a look.

“ _Everywhere_ ,” he confirmed.

Molly nodded slowly, still trying to rein in that smile.

“Do you, um…do you want me to take a look?” she asked.

“Why, so you can laugh?” Sherlock said, with what looked very much like a pout.

“No, I was going to suggest you let me apply the calamine lotion,” she smiled.

She saw a blush suddenly rise in Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Much as I like the sound of that idea, Molly,” he replied, looking genuinely pained. “I don’t want your associations with…certain regions of my anatomy to be tarnished forever. Things don’t look…at their best down there.”

“I’m a medical professional, Sherlock,” she told him with a smile. “I’ve seen a few sights in my time.”

“Yes, but the…ah, _things_ you see on the slab have outlived their usefulness,” he insisted. “And I very much hope that mine haven’t. I mean, we’re getting married in a week…”

Molly hopped up onto the sofa to sit beside him, reaching up to card a hand through his damp hair.

“This will all have settled down by then,” she said, taking the hand that rested on his knee. “You’ll feel much better.”

“ _Feel_ much better, yes,” Sherlock retorted. “But you do know what this means for our wedding day, Molly, don’t you?”

00000000000000

 

Molly tried not to look too closely at the sea of familiar faces as she entered the small ceremony room at the Old Town Hall, as she knew it wouldn’t take much to make her lose her footing or for the gently flitting butterflies to become more like a colony of panicking bats. Reaching the end of the small aisle, she handed the small bouquet to Meena and came to stand beside Sherlock at the front of the room.

“Hello,” he said, in a low whisper, turning to face her.

Immediately, the butterflies started to settle. Sherlock had been right – the chickenpox hadn’t gone away completely before the wedding, and John had very nearly lost his Best Man role by making one too many cracks about ‘Beauty and the Beast’. But oddly, it was the sight of Sherlock’s face covered in pearly-pink blotches that calmed Molly’s nerves immediately.

“Hi,” she whispered back.

“You look beautiful,” Sherlock said, the tips of his fingers wrapping around hers.

“Thank you,” she mouthed. “You look pretty good yourself.”

She meant it wholeheartedly, but Sherlock gave a quiet snort in response.

“I got the distinct impression that the registrar has never seen a forty-year-old bridegroom with chickenpox before,” he said. “In fact, judging by the initial reaction, it’s possible that she thinks you’re marrying me to fulfil my dying wish.”

Molly pulled her lips together tightly to prevent a snigger from escaping. During the lowest ebb of his chickenpox-induced misery, Sherlock had offered to postpone the wedding, but she hadn’t considered it for even a second.

“Well, we’ve had a bit of practice with the ‘in sickness and in health’ bit, anyway,” she replied in a whisper, aware that the registrar was gathering herself to begin.

“I’m sure the photographer can alter the photos so that it doesn’t look as though you’ve just married a plague victim,” Sherlock said.

Molly smiled at him, shaking her head firmly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rosie bouncing on John’s knee; she looked in the pink of health, her own chickenpox having faded almost completely, and she was happily engaged in crumpling John’s order-of-service sheet.

“This is our wedding day, Sherlock. I don’t want some weird, sanitised version – I want to remember it as really was,” Molly told him. “And it will always remind me of why you ended up getting chickenpox in the first place.”

“Because my mother withheld vital information?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Because you’re a really, _really_ good godfather.”

Molly watched Sherlock take this in; he was trying to look dubious, but she could tell he was pleased at this particular appraisal. She leaned into his side for a moment, looking up at him as he was looking down.

“And I bet I’m the only bride who gets to play join-the-dots on her husband’s bum on her wedding night,” she added quickly.

Sherlock adopted a pained expression,

"I wasn't aware that the 'for better or for worse' referred to your jokes, Molly," he replied, arching an eyebrow.

The words were only just out of his mouth when the registrar stepped towards them.

"Molly, Sherlock, are we ready to begin?"

There was a quick exchange of looks between them, before they nodded in tandem, and Molly felt Sherlock take her hand more firmly in his. She was content to let him have the last word on this occasion, particularly given his recent suffering - and after all, they had the rest of their lives for her to think of a good comeback.

 

 

 


	8. A Very Sharp Turn for the Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Rosie for an afternoon of educational enrichment - what could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to geekmama for taking time out of her trip away to give this the once-over :-)

“You realise, Rosie, that this isn’t actually part of the museum?” Sherlock asked, glancing up from his phone.

Lestrade had texted with a tantalising eight (possible nine), and if they could get out of here fairly soon, and Molly didn’t need him back at home right away, there was a chance he could take the case. But for the past twenty-five minutes, he had been imprisoned in one of the many gift shops of the Natural History Museum, trailing behind Rosie as she trotted from one display to the next, often retracing her steps to look at something she’d already examined a few minutes earlier.

With the exception of the café, this was without doubt the area of the museum that had engaged Rosie the most. The rest of the time, she had danced past the various exhibits, resisting Sherlock’s best efforts to draw her attention to the wonders of nature. Eventually, he gave up and just let her lead him around.

Still, it was a marginal improvement on when he and Molly had taken William to the Science Museum, and their toddler son had spent the whole visit inspecting in great detail the fire extinguishers, the recycling bins and the racks of leaflets. Not that Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed that occasion (being out in public with Molly and William gave him a sense of pride and accomplishment entirely different to that of solving a case), but he felt the educational benefits for their son were negligible.  

“Yes, they’re very, ah, pretty, but let’s put them down,” Sherlock said, temporarily pocketing his phone so he could lever open Rosie’s clenched fist and release the handful of shiny gemstones she’d scooped up. He hoped whoever was idiotic enough to buy these things understood that they were probably also taking home several infectious diseases. 

Gemstones immediately forgotten, Rosie dashed off to look at a display of scientific toys, picking up a box containing a ‘Make Your Own Solar System’ kit.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock told his goddaughter. “If you take that home, your daddy will never let me hear the end of it.”

Some things truly never seemed to get old for John, and that one, perfectly rational, Mind Palace deletion was apparently destined to haunt him forever.

He didn’t mind buying Rosie a small something as a souvenir of their visit (and to prove to John that he didn’t take his friend’s daughter to a crime scene again); in fact, he would probably take something home for Will as well, seeing as he had missed out on the outing – although his son would probably be happy with the free museum map.

Keeping one eye on Rosie, he fired off a text to Molly.

**How are you both? - SH**

It was a while before she responded. He moved aside to avoid being jostled by yet another rucksack-toting troglodyte – god, these places were unbearable on a Saturday!

**Not too bad – just resting. W asleep. Are you and R having fun? - Mx**

Sherlock sniffed to nobody in particular.

**I am in gift shop purgatory. Rosie sees it differently – SH**

He waited while Molly typed a response, watching as Rosie picked up a pocket microscope – that was actually not a bad suggestion, seeing as he’d been intending to buy her one at some point anyway.

**What time are you leaving? – Mx**

Rosie had set down the microscope and was instead making a beeline for a small mountain of soft toys, upon which she more or less threw herself.

**Soon. I hope – SH**

He paused before tapping out a follow-up message.

**Keep resting. I will bring dinner – SH**

Molly would be fine, Sherlock knew, but worrying about the health of one’s pregnant wife was apparently not anything over which he had any control. This outing had begun with all four of them taking the Underground (ugh!) to the museum, but it had soon become apparent that William was tired and not in the mood for an edifying experience. As Molly was also tired (at six months she already look more like nine), she had suggested it might be easier if the two of them just returned home. The prospect of being around so many  _people_  without Molly’s company was not a pleasant one, but his suggestion to Rosie that they might go somewhere else was met with a frown and a look of disdain that he’d only before seen on the face of one Mary Watson.

“Uncle Serlock!”

When he looked up, Rosie was skipping towards him holding aloft a very large and very furry brown…creature. She stopped dead in front of him and gave the ridiculous furry object an embrace so intense that it made her whole body shake.

“Can Sophie come home with me, Uncle Serlock?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Who’s…Sophie?”

Confirming his suspicions, Rosie thrust the brown thing towards him again. What on earth was it anyway?

“Daddy will like her,” Rosie added, to strengthen her argument.

“Why don’t we have a look at these nice microscopes, hm?” Sherlock suggested. Diversion – diversion and distraction were the key with small children. “Aren’t these interesting? And this is just like the ones that Aunty Molly and I both use.”

Neither his microscope, nor the ones available to Molly in the path lab, were clad in bright green plastic and covered with pictures of butterflies and ladybirds, but close enough.

“No!” replied Rosie crossly, squeezing the brown thing against her chest.

“I see,” Sherlock said. “Well, how about a volcano? We could make a volcano with this thing over here – that would be quite exciting, wouldn’t it?”

It would be mildly exciting anyway. At least it was science.

“Sophie is my friend,” Rosie protested. “She wants to see my room and sleep in my bed.”

If he was dealing with an adult, there were at least seven different ways he could demolish such an argument, but somehow none of them seemed applicable to a two-and-a-half-year-old.

“Rosie,” he said firmly, crouching in front of her. “We have come to visit the Natural History Museum, so we should at least come away with something representative of a genuine species of animal. Not whatever fictitious invention… _this_  is.”

“It’s  _Sophie_!”

“Okay, but Sophie isn’t a real animal, Rosie.”

Honestly, why would an internationally-renowned and respected museum even sell such things?

“I want her!”

“Yeeess,” Sherlock said, digging deep into his reserves of patience. “And if I can pass on one piece of wisdom as your godfather, it would be that life, unfortunately, doesn’t always give us what we want.”

If it did, Mycroft would have vanished from his life in a puff of smoke thirty-five years ago. And Molly would say yes to the dog idea.

“Pleeeassse!”

That was louder and more conspicuous than Sherlock would have ideally liked.

“I’m sorry, Rosie, but we’re not buying this,” he told her, extracting the brown thing from her arms with some difficulty. “Now come on. Perhaps if you’re a good girl, we could have an ice-cream on the way home.”

Bribes. Bribes usually worked too, didn’t they?

“No!” Rosie responded, throwing herself on the display of soft toys again.

“Well, in that case, we can skip the ice-cream and simply return home,” Sherlock told her.

At this, Rosie did an actual stamp of the foot and folded her arms, but she didn’t attempt to pick up the furry nemesis again. With a tiny thrill of victory coursing through him, Sherlock turned to start walking towards the exit; if he did it with purpose, making clear that he meant it, Rosie would have no choice but to follow.

Sherlock stopped at the periphery of the shop, taking out his phone and noting that he had another text from Lestrade, asking him if he should send a car for him. He hesitated – he would respond once they were out of the museum and on their way. After a couple of moments, he realised that he could neither see nor hear Rosie; he knew he had no choice but to turn around. Sherlock expected to see her just behind him, or, at the most, staging a lying-down protest in the gift shop – but instead she was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the shop but couldn’t spot her. He walked the pathways between the display units at a brisk pace, taking into account where a small person could be lurking if they were feeling particularly ornery. Of course, he noted irritably, if these places actually had doors, it would be much easier – but instead, it was all open-plan, and essentially there were probably five or six ways Rosie could have left the shop.

He wasn’t going to panic. She had been out of his sight for approximately three minutes, and there was only so far that someone with Rosie’s stride-length could realistically travel in that time. To determine which way she had gone, it meant, of course, that he was going to have to think like a two year-old ( _shut up_ , he told Mind Palace John, before he had the chance to make a quip).

Within seconds, he had caught sight of her pink raincoat; she was in the café area, perching on a chair, while two adults apparently tried to engage her in conversation. The woman, wearing an apron, clearly worked in the café, while the man’s role in museum security was given away by his wash-worn black polo shirt and walkie-talkie. Sherlock sighed. He was going to have to explain that no, Rosie  _wasn’t_  lost, that there had merely been a trivial disagreement and she had reacted as any irrational toddler could be expected to react.

“Ah, there you are, Rosie,” Sherlock said, interjecting. He noted the look of apprehension on the woman’s face, and the decidedly suspicion expression on the man’s. “Come along, we need to be going.”

He offered what he hoped would pass as a friendly smile to the employees.

“Thank you for your concern, and our apologies for any inconvenience,” he said, before holding out his hand to Rosie. They would have a little talk about running away when they could do it more discreetly.

“Just wait a moment,” the man said, drawing himself up to his full height.

Oh wonderful. He was going to have to listen to this police force reject lecture him on the dos and don’ts of looking after small children. Well, he hoped it would at least be quick.

“Yes?” he said, forcing a smile back onto his face.

He saw the Security Man exchange glances with Café Woman. Rosie, for her part, was looking sullen and showing no intention of moving from her chair.

“This little girl says you were following her,” the man said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, of course I was following her – I’m taking care of her. Or at least I was until she made a bid for freedom.”

In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best way to phrase it. He saw Security Man flinch.

“She said that you’re not her daddy, and that you keep following her,” the man said.

“Yeeess, both of those things are true,” Sherlock said slowly. “I am her _godfather_ , and the reason I was following her was because it didn’t seem like a good idea to allow an infant to have free rein of a building of this size.”

He turned to his goddaughter.

“Rosie, please tell the man who I am, so that we can go home.”

“Wait, wait,” the man interjected. “You can’t say that. It’s leading her. She might feel threatened into going with you.”

Oh for-

“Listen to me,” Sherlock said. “This is Rosamund Mary Watson, she is thirty-one months old, and I am her godfather. I have not kidnapped her, I am not  _attempting_  to kidnap her, and have absolutely no nefarious intentions towards her whatsoever. In fact, I was going to buy her an ice-cream, but I’m beginning to have second thoughts on that subject.”

“Woah, you can’t say that!” the man cut in again. “That’s a classic abduction technique, bribing a young child with treats.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again.

“Well, I believe it’s also a classic  _parenting_  technique, so we’ll have to agree to differ on that.”

Security Man was eyeing him now, his gaze occasionally flicking across to Rosie, as though he was weighing the evidence.

“Sandra, can you keep the young lady here for a little while?” he said, turning to look back at Sherlock. “I think we need to straighten this out in the office.”

000000000

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock protested, as the door to the tiny security office was closed behind him. “For one thing, I can’t just leave my goddaughter out there with some stranger – in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s only two years old. She’s doesn’t understand what’s going on, she’s probably terrified.”

Although, he conceded to himself, Rosie didn’t  _look_  terrified when he last saw her. In fact, when he last saw her, she was pointing into the cake display to show the Café Woman what she would like, failing to even give him a backwards glance.

“Look mate,” the man replied. “We can’t take any chances; have to check that you are who you say you are, and everything’s above board. Shouldn’t take long.”

At this, the other man in the office looked up from his computer screen.

“Christ, it’s Sherlock Holmes!” he said, quickly adding. “Sorry – I just wasn’t expecting that. What’s going on? Are you here to investigate something?”

Sherlock stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff.

“No, I am in fact the one being investigated,” he replied. “I’m sure your colleague can enlighten you.”

There was a brief exchange of words between the two men, before the first man turned back to him.

“You’re really Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, frowning.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response.

“Where’s the hat?” the man continued. “You wear that weird hat, don’t you?”

Sherlock felt his mood darken further.

“No, I  _don’t_  wear the hat,” he replied. “That was a very unfortunate case of the press catching hold of something at a very particular moment and blowing it out of all proportion; not helped, admittedly, by the blogging proclivities of my friend and associate, John Watson. Who, incidentally, is Rosie’s father, and who, consciously and in sound mind, left his daughter in my care today.”

Of course - this could all be cleared up in less than a minute!

“I will call him right now and you can speak to him yourself,” he told the men. Yes, John would no doubt give him grief over this for the next three weeks, but it would be worth it if it meant he could get on with his life. That case in Southwark was slipping further and further from his grasp.

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone, while the two men eyed him warily. He hit the speed-dial and waited. And waited some more.

Then John’s voicemail kicked in, and Sherlock groaned inwardly, holding the phone at a distance from his ear.

_“This is John Watson. I can’t answer my phone at the moment, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you….And Sherlock, if that’s you, I mean it, I really can’t answer the phone right now, so whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait.”_

When Sherlock looked up, the two men were watching him expectantly. Now all he could think about was Rosie; all irritation towards her had dissipated, and instead he strongly felt the need to be reunited with her (even if the feeling wasn’t necessarily mutual). With an inward sigh of resignation, he took out his phone again.

“I’ll call my wife,” he told them. “And she can confirm what I’ve told you.”

The last thing he wanted to do was disturb Molly’s precious rest, but he really didn’t seem to have much choice. He saw the first man looking at him sideways.

“Wife?” he said.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Wife.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have a wife,” the man continued, with a snort.

Sherlock set his jaw.

“Why wouldn’t he – I mean,  _I_  – have a wife?”

The man shrugged.

“There’s no way that a bloke like Sherlock Holmes goes home after a day of all that crime-solving stuff, and has dinner with his wife in front of the telly.”

He was about to say that yes, he had been known to do exactly that, not that it was any of their business - but instead, he held up his left hand. Both men leaned forward to peer at the gold band on his finger.

“Doesn’t necessarily prove anything,” the first men said, straightening up again.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back; it was the best course of action for anyone, given his irritation levels at this point.

“I can assure you that I am not wearing a fake wedding ring for the purpose of scouring London’s museums and claiming guardianship of random small children,” he told them.

“He’s right, you know,” the second man said, looking up from his screen again. “He  _is_  married.”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Yes, funny that I might be party to that kind of information,” he said.

“And he’s got a kid,” the man continued, as though Sherlock wasn’t in the room. “I’m reading his Wikipedia page. Boy, though, not a girl.”

Sherlock made a mental note to request that Mycroft delete his Wikipedia entry again (he was sure Anderson and his ridiculous band of halfwit followers were behind the fact that it was constantly re-emerging).

“Yes, as I explained,” he said in reply. “I am not Rosie’s father, I am her  _godfather_.”

“Is _that_ on Wikipedia?” the first man asked his colleague.

This was now officially beyond the pale.

“Let’s assess this situation together, hm?” Sherlock said, his hackles well and truly up. “You are currently holding me captive and keeping me from my goddaughter on the basis that a notoriously unreliable website is unable to verify our relationship. On top of this, you are keeping me from attending a crime scene on the other side of London, which, with every minute that passes, is haemorrhaging vital trace evidence. You would know this, of course” – he addressed the first security officer – “if you hadn’t failed the Police Initial Recruitment Test three times.”

Sherlock could see the man caught between bewilderment, amazement and annoyance, but he ploughed on.

“Considering that I’ve had the misfortune to work with some of those who  _did_  pass that test, I’d say that’s pretty impressive going on your part,” he continued. “But at least your job here is safe, unlike your esteemed colleague to my left, who is currently on a formal warning over the selfies he has been taking with exhibits after hours and then posting on Twitter.”

He tilted his head to one side, as the second man’s mouth dropped open.

“Perhaps keep your clothes on next time,” Sherlock added. “After all, this is a family attraction.”

0000000000000

It was fair to say that his chosen approach had not worked especially well. An hour later, the door to the security office opened, and Molly was shown into the room, William on her hip and Rosie holding tightly to her other hand, peering around at Sherlock. This was his rescue party.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Holmes,” the security man said, with a smile. “Sorry for the little misunderstanding.”

Sherlock glowered at him, as he took William from Molly to try to ease her load.

“And our apologies again for having to bring you down here, Mrs Holmes,” the man continued. “We explained to your husband that we do have certain protocols we have to follow for the safety and welfare of our visitors.”

Molly rested her hands on Rosie’s shoulders.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, glancing briefly to Sherlock before turning back. “I’m, um, I’m sure you did.”

Sherlock objected to their insinuation that  _he_  had been unreasonable, but he suspected that Molly had read the situation – and everything that came before – perfectly. She always did; she knew him too well.

“Still,” she said. “I don’t understand why ringing me wasn’t enough, why I had to get in a taxi and come all away over here with our little boy?”

There was no immediate answer, and Sherlock sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose.

“They wanted to see it for themselves, Molly,” he said.

“Sorry, see what?” Molly asked.

“You. William,” he elaborated. “Somehow these two gentlemen found it very hard to believe that I would have a family.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but the second security officer got there first.

“Lovely to meet you, Mrs Holmes,” he said. “Hope we’ll see you folks here again. Well, not in  _here_ , but, you know, the museum.”

Sherlock felt Molly take his hand, squeezing his fingers firmly in the manner that told him he should cut his losses and say nothing further. William seemed to reinforce this message by clamping a small hand over Sherlock’s mouth and grinning at him.

Once they were back in the vast Hintze Hall, they stopped, and Molly released Sherlock’s hand. She looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“You two had a bit of an adventure, then,” she said.

He could think of about nine or ten charges to lay at the feet of the overzealous security staff, but he suspected this wasn’t going to get him very far.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he said instead. “Did they say how Rosie has been?”

“Well, she definitely had a better time than you,” Molly said, smiling down at their goddaughter. “She apparently had a big glass of milk and a chocolate crispy cake, and has been doing some colouring.”

William was wriggling to get down, so Sherlock set him on the floor; right away, he and Rosie started chasing each other around, apparently oblivious to the colossal blue whale skeleton suspended above their heads.

“So what happened?” Molly continued, rubbing her belly absentmindedly. “I mean, I got the general gist from the security guy, and from the lady in the café who was looking after Rosie, but when you texted earlier you were in the shop, about to leave.”

Sherlock sighed.

“That was more or less the point when events took a very sharp turn for the worse,” he said. “Rosie was-”

He stopped, looked again.

“What’s Rosie got in her hand?”

It was something very brown and furry, and except for it being only two-thirds of the size, it was otherwise identical to the creature that caused all of this torment.

“Oh, she saw it when we were passing the shop,” Molly replied. “She wanted the bigger one, but this was the compromise. It already has a name.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, through gritted teeth. “ _Sophie_.”

Molly looked up at him with surprise; Sherlock barely had the heart to explain, but he appreciated that he was somewhat in her debt.

“She ran away because I wouldn’t buy it for her,” he explained. “It seemed nonsensical to go to a museum devoted to scientific research and discovery, and come away with an imaginary, make-believe creature instead.”

When he finished speaking, he could see that Molly was staring at him. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“What?” he demanded.

“Sherlock, you do know that a woolly mammoth is a real animal, right?” she asked hesitantly. “Real, albeit long-extinct.”

Sherlock frowned, took a breath. He could see a smile playing at the edges of Molly’s lips.

“Really?” he replied. “They look ridiculous. I assumed they were like dragons - or unicorns, which seem to be everywhere these days.”

Molly covered her mouth with her hand, but it was patently obvious that she was laughing.

“Well, they’re real,” she said, nodding. “Everyone knows what a mammoth is, Sherlock! I think there’s even a model of one in the museum somewhere – you probably walked past it.”

“Must’ve deleted it,” Sherlock conceded. The area in his Mind Palace devoted to prehistory was little bigger than a large drawer; funnily enough, it wasn’t a subject that came up a lot in modern crime-fighting.

Molly laughed, this time quite openly.

“Yes, well, you might want to be careful about what you delete in the future. You never know when it might be useful,” she said, arching up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Come on – Rosie said something about ice-cream?”

Sherlock scoffed, watching Rosie holding out her new – and apparently not fictional – acquisition for William to ty to grab.

“Am I buying?” he queried.

Molly threaded her fingers through his.

“Well, let’s see – you lost your goddaughter, nearly started a fight with museum staff, and then made your heavily pregnant wife and little boy travel all the way back across London to bail you out,” she smiled. “I’d say that’s worth at least a Cornetto, wouldn’t you?”

“Fine,” he sighed. “But, ah, don’t tell John about the mammoth thing. It’ll be like the sun-around-the-earth debacle all over again.”

“Earth around the sun,” Molly replied with a grin. “But it’s a deal. After all, I’ve always been pretty good at keeping your secrets, haven’t I?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I must say that I'm sure the security staff at the Natural History Museum are very professional and not at all petty or officious - and yes, it's probably a bit far-fetched that Sherlock wouldn't recognise a woolly mammoth, but I can easily believe that he would delete several millennia of ancient history due to it not being "really useful"! :-)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has been commenting and kudos-ing so far - it's really appreciated!


	9. A Room of Her Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Rosie sets in motion some big changes for Sherlock and Molly's growing family...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for such a long gap between chapters - first going on a family holiday, then spending a week trying to recover from said family holiday. Somewhere in the midst of all that, I very slowly wrote this...
> 
> Thanks again to geekmama for the beta-ing magic - for the second time during this series, she made my final line work much better than how I'd written it!

Molly gently lifted the warm, drowsy bundle to her shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into the tiny back of the newest addition to the Holmes family. Somehow, three weeks had passed, although she seemed to have spent much of that time rooted to this exact spot, indulging the insatiable feeding habits of one Theodore ‘Teddy’ Holmes. The fact that she  _could_  was down to Sherlock’s decision to eschew work for the first six weeks of their new son’s life, and Molly knew she needed to appreciate it while it lasted. She still had no idea how she would make snacks, help build Duplo models and generally keep a very lively two-year old out of the kind of trouble into which only William Holmes seemed to be able to get. The previous day, he had managed to shut himself  _and_ Toby in the shower cubicle (while wearing, for some reason best known to William, a pair of Sherlock’s shoes), and it had been a toss-up between which of them was more panicked.

And speaking of William…

“No, Daddy! You have to lie down for mending!”

Molly suppressed a smile as she watched Sherlock sigh, remove his jacket and unfold his gangly limbs into a supine position on their sofa (the very sofa Sherlock always complained was too short for him). It was like watching her husband being ordered around by a miniature version of himself. As soon as he was in place, William clambered onto the sofa, swinging his new present up with him and narrowly avoiding Sherlock’s nose. Already frightening astute (Molly suspected she’d have to get used to that), William had asked, while tearing into his present in her hospital room, how Teddy knew to bring him a doctor’s kit when he arrived – and where he’d kept it while he was in her tummy. Even if she hadn’t been utterly drained by sixteen hours of labour and a sleepless night on the maternity ward, it would have been difficult to come up with a satisfactory explanation.

“William, I can assure you that instrument does not go anywhere near  _there_ ,” Sherlock said, moving his arm to protect more delicate areas. “I don’t know what Mummy’s been telling you, but it’s a very, very long time since she’s worked with anyone who needed to be mended.”

“I worked with  _you_ ,” Molly pointed out, smiling, settling Teddy into the crook of her arm.

Sherlock looked across, eyes meeting hers and softening for a moment. He had clearly been on the brink of another flippant remark and had been pulled up short by her words. 

“Perhaps then," he said instead, "you could teach our son a better bedside manner?”

At this point, William was twisting Sherlock’s head around so he could get better access to his right ear.

“I was actually thinking about teaching him how to make a Y-incision next,” Molly grinned. "Gotta start them young."

Sherlock managed a smile before wincing as William’s knee dug into his thigh.

“Amazingly, I think that might be less uncomfortable,” he replied, as William peered into his eye with a plastic ophthalmoscope.

At the sound of the doorbell, William immediately scrambled off the sofa and raced for the front door. Sherlock quickly followed him before William could find something unsuitable to stand on to help him reach the latch. Seconds later, Molly heard John's voice, followed by a shriek of excitement from her son - presumably at the sight of Rosie bouncing through the door. By the time she and Teddy had made it into the hallway, the two toddlers were spinning each other around like the contents of a centrifuge.

“Rosie, mind out,” John warned, moving her away from the pram parked near the front door. “It’s getting like a taxi rank in here,” he added with a smile.

He wasn’t wrong. Behind the pram were two car-seats, behind that was William’s fold-up pushchair, and behind  _that_  was Will’s balance bike, a present from Sherlock’s parents for his second birthday. It didn’t seem five minutes ago to Molly when the only thing in her hall was a half-empty shoe rack – now the shoe-rack was spilling over with an eclectic assortment of immaculate Yves Saint Laurent oxfords, slightly battered ballet pumps and puddle-splashed dinosaur wellies. Plus, you now had to practically climb over the shoe-rack to get into the kitchen.

John greeted Molly with a kiss on the cheek, then backed up slightly to admire a (miraculously) still sleeping Teddy.

“You are certain, Molly, that you’re not just the host for Sherlock’s cloning project?” he said with a lopsided smile.

“Well, we’ll just have to keep going until one of them looks like Molly,” Sherlock replied, shooting her a raised eyebrow.

Molly rolled her eyes.

“Not the best thing to say to a woman who gave birth less than a month ago,” she told him.

A thump followed by a feline screech told Molly that William and Rosie had started a game of chase-the-cat in the living room, and that Toby wasn’t enjoying it too much. The ageing cat shot out of the room to seek solace in the kitchen, its human pursuers not far behind.

“William,” Molly said, as Sherlock stopped their son in his tracks. “Why don’t you and Rosie find something to play with in your room?”

“Before I post you both through the cat-flap,” Sherlock muttered, barely under his breath.

As the two children scurried off into the smaller bedroom (it seemed odd now that it had ever been a spare room), Molly saw John frown.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked. “I mean, it’s the first time Harry has ever actually made it to the end of one of these twelve-step things, and I know what it took for her to ask me along this afternoon…”

“Of course, it’s fine!” Molly replied. “It’s always lovely to have Rosie over. And anyway, I’m pretty sure it can’t get any more chaotic than it already is.”

“I’m less convinced of that,” Sherlock put in.

Molly nudged him in the ribs.

“…but we’ll manage nonetheless,” he added, flashing John a rictus smile.

 “It’ll just be a couple of hours,” John said, nodding. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

He leaned around the corner to call goodbye to Rosie, getting no response in return.

“Nope. Nothing,” he replied. “Well, that’s me told. I’ll, ah, I guess I’ll see you later.”

Once John had left, Molly carefully transferred Teddy into the Moses basket in the living room, freezing stock still while their son decided whether his fidgeting was going to turn into angry protestations. As he settled, she felt Sherlock’s hand reach out to take hers, leading her over to the sofa. Molly sunk into the sofa cushions, the dip in the middle causing her to collapse against Sherlock’s side (the sofa might be short, but it had certainly had its plus points – she might remind him of that later). His arm stretched around her shoulders and Molly felt him press a kiss to her temple, before tipping her face up to his for another kiss.

“Does this count as a date when you have two children under two?” she smiled against his mouth.

“Hm. A stolen moment on the sofa while a pair of infants work out the most efficient way of turning our home into a disaster area,” he replied. “I’m feeling my standards slipping with every passing moment of parenthood.”

He dipped to kiss her again, and just as Molly was starting to remember how Sherlock talked her into having two children in quite such quick succession, their solitude was sharply interrupted by William dashing back into the living room. He came to an abrupt halt, and just stood there with a slightly uncertain expression on his face.

“William, is everything okay?” Molly asked, noticing that he had started to wind a curl of hair around his finger, which was a sure sign that he was anxious about something.

Without looking directly at her, he pointed a finger towards the hallway. 

It had to be something to do with Rosie, Molly knew, as she levered herself off the sofa as quickly as she could manage. It wouldn’t be the first time that happy, harmonious game-play had taken a sharp nosedive into toddler warfare. Rosie had surprising reserves of patience for a three-year old, but she certainly had no problem standing up to William’s more boisterous tactics.

The door to William’s bedroom was ajar, and as soon as Molly pushed it open, she heard a sound that made her heart lurch, one which she was now irrevocably attuned to. The sight that greeted her did nothing to reassure her: Rosie was standing with her back to the window, arms down by her sides, tears streaming down her face.

“Rosie, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Molly said, rushing to her goddaughter’s side. Somehow, she knew instinctively that this wasn’t the result of a snatched toy or a pushing match.

Eyes screwed tight shut and still sobbing, Rosie pointed a finger straight out in front of her. Molly looked, unsure about what she was supposed to be looking at.

And then she realised.

While Molly had still been in the hospital with Teddy, Sherlock had raised the base of William’s cot and moved it into their room to become Teddy’s sleeping place. William, in turn (far too big for a cot that he had been able to escape from for months) had been ‘promoted’ to the toddler bed.

Of course – the first thing that William would have wanted to do when Rosie arrived was to show off his new bed…which would have been fine if William’s new bed wasn’t also Rosie’s  _old_  bed, the one she slept in when she occasionally stayed over.  

Now, the little bed had been divested of its candy-striped duvet cover and replaced with William’s brand-new robot-themed set, of which he was immensely proud.

Molly pulled Rosie into her arms, tucking the little girl’s blond head into the crook of her neck.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, sweetheart,” she said, stroking Rosie’s hair. “But it doesn’t mean Uncle Sherlock and I don’t want you to stay over any more, because we definitely do.”

She felt Rosie’s whole body wracked by her stuttering breaths.

“But where will I sleep?” she sobbed.

At that moment, the door opened again and William came sauntering cautiously into the room, clearly trying to gauge the situation.

“Rosie’s just a bit upset,” Molly tried to explain. “But we love having her here, don’t we?”

William’s entirely inappropriate response was to rocket over to his beloved new bed and throw himself down on it, immediately rolling around on the top of it as though it was covered in fifty-pound notes.

“Young man, that  _isn’t_  very helpful,” came Sherlock’s voice as he entered the room. He had clearly made his deductions very quickly, and he scooped their unrepentant toddler off the bed and back onto his feet.

Molly couldn’t help but notice the look of concern on Sherlock’s face, greater than she might have expected to see. He had seen Rosie crying on many occasions – had borne the brunt of it a fair few times – but this episode had somehow touched a sensitive point.

William was eyeing Rosie with confusion, and in response to the tactless staring, Rosie tightened her grip around Molly’s neck.

“Why is Rosie sad?” William asked.

Molly sighed, beckoning for him to come closer.

“Well, remember what usually happens when Rosie stays the night?” she began. “You sleep in your cot and Rosie sleeps in the bed. But now you’re too big for the cot and Teddy will need it soon, so we have to switch things around. We’ll buy Rosie a special fold-up bed so she can still stay in your room, and she can choose some nice new bedcovers, too. How does that sound, Rosie?”

“ _I_  want new bedcovers!” William announced, before Rosie had the chance to hiccup a reply.

“You  _have_  new bedcovers,” Sherlock reminded him. “That was two hours of my life I will never recover.”

“I want a fold-up bed!” William replied. “I want to fold up in it!”

“Not exactly what it’s intended for,” Sherlock said. “But I’m starting to see how that might work.”

 Molly fired him a look, which he returned with one of his own that said something that roughly translated as  _you were thinking it, too._  “How does that sound to you, Rosie?” Molly asked, tucking a strand of wavy blonde hair behind the little girl’s ear. “Would you like a special fold-up bed of your own?”

Rosie nodded through her tears, swallowing before asking thickly, “Will Teddy sleep in your room forever?”

Molly frowned, trying to second-guess the toddler-logic.

"Well, no, not forever..."

"You want to know where you will sleep once William is sharing his room with Teddy - is that right, Rosie?" Sherlock cut in.

Again, she nodded, her breath hitching. Molly felt her chest contract slightly, wondering how their three-year-old goddaughter was somehow thinking longer-term than they had up to this point. She gave Rosie a squeeze, searching for an answer that might reassure or at least placate.

"Why is Teddy sleeping in my room?" William enquired, catching up with the conversation and looking none too happy about this new vision of his fraternal future.

"It will belong to both of you, sweetheart, when he's bigger," Molly said, struck by just how much like Sherlock their son looked at this moment. Brotherly disputes clearly ran in the family.

She then saw another familiar expression take shape, as William was clearly hit with a brainwave.

"We can give Teddy back to the lokspital!" he said, looking to Rosie as though he'd solved all of their problems with his innate brilliance.

"Yes, that has been your answer to a few things recently, young man," Sherlock noted wryly. "Unfortunately, I suspect that we have exceeded the hospital’s returns policy with your brother, so we shall just have to keep him and make the best of it.”

Molly felt that Sherlock should have perhaps pointed out that family members don't try to give away other family members in  _any_  situation, but she suspected he and Mycroft had probably attempted much worse in their childhood. 

"We will work something out, Rosie," Molly said, rubbing her back and hoping to coax a smile out of her. "And you will always,  _always_  be welcome to stay with us. Even if it means Uncle Sherlock has to sleep in Toby's basket."

This at least did raise a smile from Rosie, and an outright guffaw from William, who laughed like a drain and pointed at Sherlock. 

"Apparently, nothing unites us all better than my prospective humiliation," he said, fixing Molly with a stare. 

“It’s a temporary fix, at least,” she smiled.

“Yes,” he replied, a thoughtful tone in his voice.

By this time, Rosie had recovered enough to follow William out of the room again, and within a couple of seconds Molly could hear giggling, and the combined thumping and squeaking caused by two small children bouncing on the bed. She saw Sherlock roll his eyes dramatically, but he was quickly learning – like her – which battles were worth fighting.

“ _We_  may need a new bed, too,” he observed, taking Molly’s hand as they walked from the room. “That one sounds like it’s having a violent seizure.”

Molly looked over her shoulder at him and grinned.

“It was fine until you moved in,” she told him, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock snorted.

“I’m not going to apologise for loving my wife in a thorough and energetic manner,” he said.

He definitely  _didn’t_  need to apologise for that.

“So, um, what are we going to do about all this?” Molly asked, as they came to a halt in the hallway.

A smile started to spread across Sherlock’s face.

“There's only one logical conclusion, Molly," he replied. "Something we should have undoubtedly done several months ago. Something that will hopefully dispel any fear of Rosie’s that she doesn’t have a place in our home.”

000000

 

 "Are you sure about this?" John asked again, glancing between Sherlock and Molly.

They were standing on the pavement of a quiet West London street, six weeks later, their cab receding into the distance. 

"There's no question," Sherlock replied. "Isn't that right, Molly?"

Molly looked up at him and squeezed his hand. This meant a lot to him, so much so that this had become his 'case' for the past month or more. All of the research, the legwork, the negotiations, the persistence - it had all come down to this. And she was so proud of him. Words meant little to Sherlock unless they were backed up by actions, and this was no exception - he hadn't been able to rest until it was all settled. As a result, the past few weeks had been a whirlwind, but Molly loved him all the more for what he was trying to do and why he was trying to do it.

"Well, okay. I'll come back in half an hour then, yeah?" John asked. 

"Yes. You can hear all about it from Rosie afterwards,” Sherlock replied. “Can’t he?”

Rosie nodded, looking a little uncertain about what she was agreeing to. It was hardly surprising, Molly thought – Rosie had been promised a special outing and told that she and Sherlock needed her help with a special job, but so far this probably wasn’t like much of a special outing to a three-year old. For one thing, this quiet, genteel, tree-lined street was not offering farm animals, ice-cream or a bouncy castle.

John dropped a kiss onto Rosie’s head, and when Molly held out her hand, Rosie gave her father a final glance before taking it, giving him a wave with the other.

“Aunty Molly, where are we going?” Rosie whispered, tugging on her hand.

Sherlock crouched down on the pavement beside her, head close to hers, and pointed directly across the wide road to the house opposite.

“Right over there,” he said. “The one with the yellow door.”

“Who lives there?” Rosie asked, understandably nervous about who she might be about to visit.

Sherlock smiled.

“Well, that’s the question, Rosie,” he said. “It’s actually why you’re here. We hope you can help us with that.”

Molly saw Rosie nod; she was clearly still uncertain, but she trusted them enough to accept it. Molly felt her own stomach perform a small flip as they crossed the road together and she was brought closer to the place to which Sherlock had first brought her a week ago. Three days later, they had returned with Will and Teddy, but today their sons were with Sherlock’s parents so the focus could be entirely on Rosie (their oldest son had a knack for making himself the centre of attention – no prizes for guessing where that came from).

In front of them was a three-storey townhouse, typical enough for this part of London. The small town-garden at the front was cheerfully overgrown, with a wooden bench under the front window that could do with a scrub and a new coat of varnish. As they reached the house, Sherlock leaned over to flip the latch on the front gate – painted yellow to match the door – and encouraged Rosie through in front of them.

“Can you lift me up, Uncle Sherlock, so I can ring the bell?”

“No need,” Sherlock smiled, reaching into his coat pocket. “I happen to have a key.”

Rosie’s eyes widened.

“Do you have a key to _everyone’s_ house?”

Molly smirked, as Sherlock caught her eye. It probably wasn’t the moment to show Rosie the lock-picker he always kept on him; it would only cause confusion.

“No, but it’s okay,” he said instead. “I’m allowed to have the key to this one.”

The door stuck a little as Sherlock opened it, but as he pushed it open to let Molly go ahead of him with Rosie, she immediately felt that same sensation she’d had walking in the first time. She took in the tiled floor in the hallway, the Victorian plaster ceiling rose above their heads, the oak handrail curling up the stairs to the first floor. It all needed work, but not too much.

“It’s cold in this house,” Rosie commented, hugging her arms around her. “Are there ghosts?”

Sherlock frowned, as though considering it.

“No, definitely no ghosts,” he told her. “I checked that myself. It’s just cold because no-one has lived here for a little while. Once people are living here again, it’ll be fine. What do you think?”

“Big,” Rosie said, thoughtfully, craning her neck up at the ceiling.

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed. “Is it bigger or smaller than where Aunt Molly and I live?”

“Bigger,” Rosie replied, with a confident nod.

Sherlock crouched down beside her again.

“I need you to do your Aunt Molly and me a favour, Rosie,” he said.

“What flavour?”

“A favour,” Molly explained. “It’s the special job we talked about.”

“Could you possibly run up those stairs and count the bedrooms?” Sherlock continued.

Rosie’s brow furrowed. It was a strange request to come from an adult after all.

“It’s okay,” Molly reassured her. “Uncle Sherlock and I will be right behind you. Is that alright? Do you think you could do that?”

This time, Rosie nodded and, reaching up to hold the handrail, she started to take big steps up to the first floor, glancing behind her once to check that her godparents were as good as their word. When she reached the top, she walked cautiously towards the first open door and leaned in as far as she could without actually stepping over the threshold. Satisfied, finally, that there was nothing lurking in the empty room, Rosie turned around and held up her hand to Sherlock and Molly, displaying one finger.

“Yep, that’s one,” Sherlock agreed. “Keep going.”

Gradually gaining confidence, Rosie padded along the landing, counting two further rooms (noting, sensibly, that the room with a bath and toilet was _not_ a bedroom) before galloping up the second flight of stairs. When Molly and Sherlock caught up with her, she was holding out two fingers on one hand and two on the other.

“So how many is that?” Sherlock asked.

Molly helped her to count her fingers.

“Four!” she declared proudly.

“Well, that’s very lucky,” Sherlock told her. “Because four was precisely the number Aunt Molly and I were hoping for. Will you come with us and look at one of the rooms a bit more closely?”

They all trooped back down to the first floor, and Sherlock guided Rosie towards the bedroom at the back of the house. It was empty except for a small chest of drawers that had been left behind, and an old pair of floral curtains that had faded in the sunshine.

“I like this room,” Molly said, kneeling down. “Do you know why?”

Rosie shook her head, still looking around.

“Well, it’s a nice size, and the sun comes into it,” she said slowly. “Which makes it lovely and warm. But what I like most is what you can see when you look out of the window.”

Rosie looked up at her questioningly, then ran the few remaining steps to the long sash window and peered over the sill. Molly glanced at Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed on Rosie, watching in anticipation of her reaction.

“There’s a garden!” she declared. “And a swing! And a _really_ big tree!”

Molly was still watching Sherlock, felt a surge of warmth as she saw how much this clearly meant to him.

“You’re quite right, there is,” he said, smiling. “William thinks the tree might be big enough for a treehouse, but we’re waiting to see what Aunt Molly thinks about that.”

He was looking at her with raised eyebrows, daring her to spoil this perfect moment he had created, all the while accepting that she would get him back later, once they were alone.

“If Uncle Sherlock thinks he can build a treehouse, Rosie, I would be very happy for there to be a treehouse,” she said, arching her eyebrows at her husband (who, she could gladly remind him, took three attempts to assemble William’s cot, with only Greg’s intervention and help preventing the cot from being riddled with bullet-holes).

“Uncle Sherlock is certain that he can find the best builder of treehouses in all of London when the time comes,” he replied. “Aunty Molly knows that Uncle Sherlock’s skills lie elsewhere - and she’s never complained about it before.”

The conversation, by this time, was going way over Rosie’s head, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she was bouncing on her toes, asking whether they could go and look at the garden, and whether she could try out the swing. As soon as Sherlock gave the word, she was racing out of the room and taking the stairs down to the ground floor as quickly as she could.

Molly felt Sherlock’s hand slip around her waist, and they started to walk to the stairs.

“I think that went okay,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

Molly grinned up at him.

“How many little girls have a godfather who’d buy a whole house in central London just to keep her happy?”

Sherlock gave a sniff of laughter.

“You know there’s more to it than that, Molly,” he said. “Much as I like our current home, and will always think of it fondly, we have come to the point where we are practically bursting out of it; it was never going to work for five of us. I will look forward to finding a home for some my old things from Baker Street – and we can finally buy a new sofa that actually does the proper job of a sofa.”

Molly nudged him as they came to the bottom of the stairs.

“Um, I seem to remember that sofa doing a pretty good job a couple of days after you and I got together,” she reminded him. “And actually quite a few times since.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Well, if you like, we can give it a good send-off,” he replied. “Before I set fire to it.”

As they made their way to the kitchen at the back of the house, Rosie came clattering back towards them. She grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, dragging him towards the double doors that led off into the garden.

“Come on! Come on!”

Sherlock unlocked the door and held it open for Rosie.

“Five minutes!” Sherlock called after her as she ran into the garden. “Then we have to go back and meet your daddy. Why don’t you have a closer look at that tree?”

They watched as their goddaughter ran straight over to the tree, staring up at it for a moment before making a first, tentative effort at getting a foothold on the wide, twisting trunk. She circled it a couple of times before making a break for the swing-set at the other side of the garden; it was old, too, with flaking paint, and would probably need to be replaced, but it was a start.

Molly slipped her arm around Sherlock’s waist as they stood there in the fading light of the afternoon. He looked down at her, an amused little smile on his face, which seemed to exactly mirror her own thoughts at that moment – _how did we get here?_

Things fell silent for a moment, with just the sound of traffic rumbling a few streets away and the whir of a lawnmower a couple of houses along.

“I don’t ever want to let her down, Molly,” Sherlock said suddenly, looking out ahead of them.

She looked up at him, at the handsome profile that couldn’t ever belong to anyone else (despite the little replica Sherlocks they seemed to have created).

“She doesn’t look like a little girl who feels let down,” she told him after a beat. But she sensed there was more; she always knew.

“Rosie, yes, but also...”

She saw him swallow hard.

“Mary?” Molly supplied, gently.

“I owe her so much,” he said, nodding, his eyes to the ground. “And she entrusted me with so much.”

Molly eased her arm from around Sherlock and twined her fingers with his; he shifted his gaze to their joined hands, as though marvelling at that perfectly ordinary – and very common – occurrence between them. Sometimes she still did that, too; it never lost its novelty or sheen.

“I know, Sherlock. I feel the same way,” she told him. “But you won’t let her down. You couldn’t.”

He smiled.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said. “For your unending faith in me.”

She rubbed the pad of her thumb over his wedding ring.

“More in us, really,” she told him, smiling. “We’re pretty good lab partners.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replied, kissing the top of her head.

They needed to call Rosie back and hand her over to John, but something was nagging at Molly, and after a couple of moments it occurred to her what it was.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Earlier on, when you said ‘the five of us’, you, um, you were talking about Rosie, right?”

She saw his brow briefly twitch.

“Er…yes.”

He blinked a few times, and Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Because I thought maybe you meant five of _us,_ ” she continued.

“Which would be ridiculous,” Sherlock replied, quickly. “Seeing as there are only four of us.”

“Yes,” Molly replied, still watching him, becoming ever more suspicious by the second. “Which kind of makes this a bigger house than we actually need…”

“Like I said, Molly,” he said, looking out over the garden, pointedly not catching her eye. “I was referring to Rosie; it’s important for her to have a space of her own.”

“Okay,” Molly said slowly. “No, I mean, that’s good-”

“Of course, a couple of those rooms _are_ fairly large,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, as he started to stride across the lawn to retrieve Rosie. “You know, if there was ever a need for anyone to share.”

By the time Molly’s brain caught up and she started to formulate a rebuttal, Sherlock was heading back towards her with Rosie on his hip. With a very deliberate waggle of the eyebrows as he approached, he strode purposefully past her towards the back door.

“Come on, Molly,” he said. “If we leave now, we’ll have some time to ourselves before my parents arrive – enough to give your sofa that send-off we were talking about.”


	10. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An innocent, everyday piece of school admin brings the past sharply into focus again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone for the lovely comments that have been coming my way for this fic - and to geekmama for her razor-sharp beta-ing skills!

Sherlock glanced down at himself as he closed the front door behind him – it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, certainly. Still, he couldn’t believe he’d missed that particular deduction – seemed blindingly obvious, now.

He automatically stepped over the heap of discarded shoes and school bags on the hallway floor, pausing only to right the pair of scooters that had been swiftly abandoned by their young owners, and were now acting as some kind of barricade-slash-mantrap. There would have to be words about this later – the boys may not yet know about the sibling they could (finally!) expect in roughly six months, but the last thing Sherlock wanted were unnecessary trip-hazards in Molly’s way.

“Sherlock?”

Her voice was coming from one of the back rooms, most likely the kitchen – Sherlock was starting to think that even if they moved to a twenty-room mansion, they’d still all be crammed into the kitchen within five feet of each other.

“Mm,” he confirmed.

“You’re home earlier than I expected, I…what happened?!”

 She was in front of him now, mouth slightly agape. Taking another step towards him, she took a closer look.

“Is that…security dye?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. “An unanticipated consequence of pursuing serial bank robbers. You’d think it would be easier these days to hack into the right computer and move a few ones and zeroes around, but, oh no, apparently some people still love the drama, the thrill of the chase.”

 Molly raised her eyebrows, clearly now suppressing a smile.

 “Yes, they do, don’t they?” she replied, teasing him. “But your coat-”

 “Is ruined, yes,” he confirmed. “And most likely my shoes too. I’ll be billing Scotland Yard.”

 Molly took another step closer, and he watched her hand reach up to touch his head. He was expecting to be pulled down for a kiss, but that apparently wasn’t what she was doing.

 “You’ve got it in your hair, too, Sherlock,” she smiled, the tips of her fingers working through the curls that hung across his forehead. “

 He ducked past her to examine his reflection in the hallway mirror.

 Oh, for-

 “You could always wear the hat…?” Molly suggested, an impish look on her face.

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

 “I’ll forgive you for that, Molly,” he told her. “But only because you’re now clearly feeling well enough to mock me in my time of need, and that can only be a good thing.”

She nodded quickly.

 “Mm,” she said. “Much better. And while I’m not sure red is really your colour, I’m pleased you’re okay.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them, sliding his hand Molly’s waist and slanting his head down to meet her in a kiss. It was hard to remember now what it was like to come home after solving a case and  _not_  do this. Of course, a few years ago, he would arrive home and they would do much  _more_  than this, but there were now others in the house to consider.

“Where are they all?” he asked, when they parted.

“Garden,” Molly replied. “Um, where’s John? I thought he’d be coming to get Rosie straight away?”

 Sherlock cleared his throat.

 “He, ah, he came off slightly worse than I did,” he said. “He went home to try to do something about that. Well, first he had to calm down, and  _then_  he had to do something about it.”

 Apparently, John was going to blame him for this, which made no sense whatsoever, given that they both had exactly the same warning before the dye pack was detonated. John only had himself to blame for his slow reflexes and reaction time.

Sherlock peeled off his coat and examined it briefly, before bundling it up and putting it on the stairs – it would keep someone warm on the London streets at night, if nothing else.

At this point, he and Molly were alerted to the sound of the back door opening, then closing behind someone. A moment later, Rosie appeared in the hallway.

 “Hi, Uncle Sherlock,” she said, a little flatly.

 “Good afternoon, Rosie,” he replied.

 “Everything okay?” Molly asked, clearly picking up on the same signals that he was.

 Rosie nodded, her gaze slightly off to one side.

 “I don’t like the game William and Teddy want to play, so I came in,” she explained. “Why is there red in your hair, Uncle Sherlock? Is it meant to cover the grey bits?”

To the side of him, Sherlock heard Molly emit a brief snort of laughter.

 “Your dad will be here soon,” Molly said, recovering quickly. “Do you want to get your things together?”

Rosie shrugged, and slowly went off to half-heartedly poke around in the pile of shoes near the door. Sherlock and Molly exchanged a look, Sherlock trying to decipher whether she wanted him to give her some space with Rosie, or to stick around and back her up. He’d got that wrong a few times.

 “Did one of the boys do something unkind?” Molly probed, taking a couple of steps towards Rosie. “Do I need to go and have a talk to them?”

 “S’not that,” she replied, shaking her head. “I just…I don’t want to see Daddy. He’s being weird.”

 Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but closed it again when he saw Molly fire him a warning look. Okay, not the time for that.

 “Weird how?” Molly asked.

 Rosie shrugged again. Six years old, and she already had the mannerisms of a teenager when she felt the world was against her.

 “He…he won’t sign my letter so I can go on the school trip,” she said. “Everyone in my class has been working on this big project, and they all get to go on the trip, but I don’t. Daddy says I’ve got to stay with him instead.” She looked up, hopefully, “Will you sign it instead, Aunty Molly?”

 Before receiving a response, Rosie dived over to her school bag and went rooting around until she produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper. Sherlock saw Molly’s brow furrow slightly, and he had to concede that he had no more clue than she did as to where this particular grievance was leading.

 “Well, um, I…if your daddy doesn’t want you to go, that’s up to him. Uncle Sherlock and I can’t go against that,” Molly said.

 “But it’s not fair!” Rosie retorted, her quiet melancholy suddenly transforming into more lively protest. “I’ve been looking  _forward_  to it!”

Molly beckoned for Rosie to give her the letter, and Sherlock waited for her reaction as she unfolded it. He actually saw her physically flinch, and then do her best to cover her reaction. She glanced at him, inviting him to look over her shoulder, but Sherlock suddenly knew what he was going to see on the page.

  _Permission for attendance on educational visit – The London Aquarium, Tuesday 20 th June_

 Swallowing, Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face.

 “Why can’t I go?” Rosie persisted. “What’s wrong with it? It’s just the aquarium. Miss Sanders said the octopus I painted for the wall display was really good, and I want to see the real ones.”

 When neither Molly nor Sherlock gave an immediate response, she continued.

 “Have I done something naughty?” she asked. “Because I know we drew whiskers on Teddy that time, but he said he wanted us to,  _and_  we said sorry.”

 This time, Molly crossed the hall and put her arm around Rosie’s shoulder, drawing her into her side.

“You haven’t been naughty,” she said, smoothing a hand over Rosie’s hair. “It’s nothing that you’ve done. Your daddy…he has good reasons, even if he can’t explain them.”

Rosie looked up at Molly, her face now framed by her godmother’s hand.

“ _What_  reasons?” she persisted.

Sherlock felt completely powerless, wishing he could do something – anything - to take this situation away from all three of them.

“I think,” Molly began, gently leading Rosie to the stairs, so they could sit. “I think that the aquarium reminds him too much of your mum, and that makes him sad.”

Rosie’s brow wrinkled, and she looked at them incredulously.

“What’s the aquarium got to do with Mummy?”

Sherlock felt as though he could barely breathe.

“Your daddy might explain when you’re bigger, Rosie,” he said, his words spilling out with little thought. “But for now, you’re going to have to be a big girl and trust him.”

Rosie didn’t get the chance to query this further, because at that moment, William and Teddy came barrelling into the hallway, both breathless. Sherlock had never been so grateful for his sons’ brash interruptions, usually so poorly timed (most recently intruding on a rather pleasant start to a Sunday that he and Molly had been enjoying in their bedroom).

“We’ve brought all the toys down from the treehouse,” William panted. “So can we have biscuits now, please?”

Sherlock took in the sight of their boys, whom he adored despite (or perhaps because of?) their quirks and their unrivalled ability to turn everything upside down. William was wearing the police uniform that Lestrade bought him for his fifth birthday (which he seemed to love, much to Sherlock’s disgust), and for some reason Teddy was wearing one of Molly’s silk nighties, now edged with garden dirt, plus a necklace made out of macaroni. Uncle Rudy would have been proud.

“Yes!” Molly almost cried, as though this was the most inspired suggestion she’d heard all week. “Yes. Rosie, could you go and help yourself and the boys to a biscuit, please?”

Rosie gave them both a look before slowly getting up from the stairs and following William and Teddy through to the kitchen. It was a look Sherlock recognised – actually more from John than Mary, but Rosie Watson knew when she was being fobbed off. Once the voices receded into the other room, Sherlock sunk down on the stairs beside Molly, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He felt Molly lean her head on his shoulder.

“I knew it would happen at some point, but this…” he murmured. “I can only imagine how John must have felt.”

Molly moved her hand to rest on his thigh.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Yes, I…” Sherlock begun, but he didn’t know where he was going with that, so he simply added, “Thank you, Molly.”

It wasn’t a strange thing for her to ask; she knew all about the nightmares he’d had intermittently over the years, fuelled by gnawing feelings of culpability and survivor’s guilt that Molly had gradually been able to help him to drive back. Even all of these years later, though, certain dark, quiet places - even the way that light shimmered off the surface of water – could take Sherlock back to the place where Mary fell. It was unthinkable that any of them would ever set foot in that place again.

There was a knock at the door, and Sherlock kissed the top of Molly’s head before going to answer it. On the other side of it, of course, was John; he had changed his clothes, but the whole of one side of his face, his hair and his left hand were stained the same vivid shade of red.

“Did this git tell you what happened?” he asked Molly. “Days it’s going to take to clean this off, maybe even weeks. And look at him – barely bloody touched him! Just left him looking like the world’s poshest punk.”

But despite his words, John was smiling; when it came to that thrill of the chase, they were always of one mind (even if the bodies were a bit slower these days – well, John’s anyway). He and Molly could, Sherlock supposed, pretend that none of this had happened, that Rosie had never brought it up, but he felt duty-bound to both his friend and his goddaughter, and **,** ultimately **,** ignoring it wouldn’t help either of them. 

“What’s going on?” John asked, looking between the two of them. “Did I miss something? Everything okay?”

Slowly, Molly held out the letter, but before she’d spoken, it was obvious that John understood.

“She wanted me to sign it,” Molly explained. “I mean, um, obviously, I didn’t…”

Within seconds, John had gone from a man buoyed up by victory to a man who looked thoroughly broken.

“Christ…” he breathed, taking the letter from Molly with a weary air. “I…I thought she’d forgotten about it - or had accepted it, at least.”

“She just doesn’t understand,” Molly said, with a shrug. “And she…well, she picks up on things so easily.”

“Yeah, I know,” John continued. “Can’t blame her for being confused, particularly given how I reacted – just didn’t see it coming. And I know it’s just a bloody school trip, it’s a tourist attraction, but I just can’t bear to even picture Rosie…there. I’ve explained it to the school, and they were fine about it – although I don’t think they really knew what the hell to say.”

He gave a sharp, wry laugh.

“Must have been a first for them,” he added.

Molly folded her arms across her chest, and Sherlock could see just how much this was affecting her, too. Yet another occasion when she felt she had to be strong for others but had just as much right to her grief.

“I…I could swap shifts and look after Rosie that day, if it would help?” Molly suggested.

John closed his eyes, his fist held to his forehead; he quickly shook his head.

“She knows her mum’s death was an accident, and she knows I was there with her when it happened, but…,” he paused, took a breath. “Look, I know I’m going to have to tell her sometime, but I can’t do it now. Not yet. She’s too…I don’t want her thinking about those things when I still can’t cope with thinking about them myself.”

Despite his desire to say the right thing, Sherlock felt utterly out of his depth; he would rather say nothing, allow John to vent his frustrations, than to come out with trite platitudes. John’s favoured phrase, ‘it is what it is’, came to mind, but it didn’t feel right coming from his own mouth – not when he had everything that John had lost.  

As the three of them stood in silence, Rosie sloped quietly back into the hallway, sliding around the kitchen doorway to stand with her back against the wall. She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at John from under her short fringe.

“Hi, sweetheart,” John said, switching tone with a deftness that was admirable. He took a step forward, arm outstretched, but Rosie wouldn’t be drawn into a hug.

“You’re all red,” Rosie said, matter-of-factly.

“Er, yeah,” John said. “Yeah, I am. I’ll tell you about it on the way home if you like. And we can talk about the other stuff too.”

He held Rosie’s jacket out to her.

“I know you’re upset with me, but there are lots of nice things we could do together that day. Maybe the zoo or the Science Museum? Or maybe there’s something good at the cinema?”

“ _I_ want to go to the zoo!” said a small voice, attached to a small boy in a silk nightie who had just emerged from the other room.

“You  _smell_ like the zoo!” answered William, following right behind.

Sherlock was about to reproach them for their interruption when he noticed something.

“Are you…are those my handcuffs?”

William shrugged.

“Yes, Daddy. Mine don’t work properly.”

Sherlock sighed.

“They’re not supposed to - they’re plastic.”

Molly flashed John an apologetic look before crossing the hall to her sons and holding up the metal chain that now connected William’s right wrist to Teddy’s left.

“Sherlock, please tell me you know where the key is?”

“Look, we’ll get going and leave you to it,” John said, his hand moving to the latch on the front door. “You’ve got enough going on here. We’ll see you soon, yeah? Rosie, say thank you to Aunty Molly and Uncle Sherlock.”

Rosie sullenly did as she was told, and the two of them left.

Without the opportunity to pause for breath or thought, Sherlock was drawn into the next crisis; William was now anxious that he would spend the rest of his life shackled to his brother, and Teddy was showing signs that he fairly urgently needed the loo.

“I should leave the pair of you like this to serve as a lesson,” Sherlock told them, crouching down to their level and fixing them both with a stare. “But this does present an excellent opportunity for an equally important lesson – how to escape from handcuffs without the need for a key.”

Having dispatched his newly-conjoined children to search for a paperclip, Sherlock found himself staring in the direction of the front door, a tightness still holding firm in his chest.

“You can’t solve everything, Sherlock,” Molly said gently, drifting across the hallway towards where he was still crouching.

“So I’m discovering,” he replied. “If only everything was as easy as two ridiculous little boys in a pair of police-issue handcuffs.”

“I know,” she said, tousling the top of his head, her fingers sliding into his curls. “But if it makes you feel any better, I love you so much for trying.”

0000000000

“Oh right, so I’m paying for this cab?” John called, as Sherlock hurriedly made his way to the front gate.

“If you don’t mind,” Sherlock replied, slightly absently, as he readjusted the object wedged under his arm.

As far as impulse purchases went, this was one he was rather pleased with, and he was slightly impatient to present it to its intended recipient. He had noticed one or two slightly odd looks when he turned up at the front desk of Scotland Yard with a wanted diamond thief cuffed to one hand and a large, plush octopus in the other, but to Lestrade’s credit, he had just waved them through without a question.

When Molly opened the door to greet them, ready to head off for the night shift at Bart’s, she clearly read his intentions straight away.

“Rosie, your daddy’s here!” she called. “And I think Uncle Sherlock has something for you.”

Sherlock gave Molly a quick kiss, then waited for the inevitable clattering of small feet on the stairs. A very excited Rosie Watson soon made an appearance – in fact, even taking into account that she might be expecting a present, she did seem _particularly_ excited.

“I found him looking out of a shop window,” Sherlock explained, as he held out the soft toy. “Seemed a strange place for an octopus, so I asked your daddy whether it was okay for you to give him a new home.”

John snorted.

“Well, if by ‘asked’ you mean dragged me without warning into the depths of Hamleys,” he said.

“Thank you!” Rosie beamed, pulling the toy against her chest. “But I think it’s a girl octopus.”

Sherlock saw Molly smiling at him, and he nodded solemnly.

“Of course, my mistake,” he told Rosie.

“Is it okay if I tell them, Aunty Molly?” their goddaughter asked, turning to seek permission.

“Probably a good idea, I reckon,” Molly replied, and when Sherlock caught her eye again, he knew immediately that there was a conspiracy of the female kind afoot.

“We’re going to the beach on Sunday!” Rosie declared, so excited that her words ran together.

Sherlock frowned.

“By we, you mean…?” he asked, tentatively.

“Me, William, Teddy, Aunty Molly and you!”

Oh god. He feared as much.

“Right,” John said brightly, from behind him. “Well, I suppose that would explain this…”

Sherlock looked up to see William and Teddy bounding down the stairs, apparently wearing their swimming trunks over their trousers. He looked closer at William, who seemed to anticipate the question that was coming.

“These are actually your pants, Daddy,” he confirmed. “Mummy says my trunks are too small.”

Sherlock heard John sniggering behind him.

“The weather’s supposed to be nice at the weekend,” Molly explained, clearly ignoring – or immune to - the pained look on his face. “And the boys have never been to the seaside, so it seemed like a good opportunity. Thought we could go to Margate or Camber Sands?”

“Solved a murder over in Margate a few years back,” Sherlock replied. “Do you remember, John? Body washed up on the beach; Ukrainian sailor murdered, all identifying features removed from his body and then thrown overboard. A solid eight-and-a-half.”

Molly was giving him that look, the one she used when he had forgotten the nature of his audience.

“Camber Sands it is, then!” she said, brightly.

Taking this as confirmation, all three children happily darted back into the house, leaving Sherlock wondering if he possessed any power strong enough to make his wife change her mind on this.

“Sorry, is that okay?” Molly asked, although she seemed to be addressing John.

John shrugged.

“Yeah, fine with me,” he told her. “I can do some of the jobs in the flat that I can never usually find the time for.”

“Or rather he’ll fall asleep in the living room watching tedious sporting events on the television,” Sherlock put in, fully aware of the acerbic tone that had crept into his voice.

“Maybe I’ll do both,” John grinned. “Tell me, Sherlock, when was the last time you went to a beach when you weren’t wearing a bespoke suit and a thousand-pound wool coat?”

His friend was enjoying this far too much.

“Am I at least allowed to ask why, Molly?” Sherlock said with a sigh and a pleading look to Molly.

“I thought it might act as an alternative to the aquarium,” Molly replied, with no sign that she felt remorse over her heinous betrayal of him.

“Molly, the beach is _not_ an alternative to an aquarium,” Sherlock retorted. “Rosie is not going to see anything more exotic than a limpet.”

“She’ll still love it,” John said. “Thanks, Molls.”

Replying that it was no problem ( _that hardly seemed accurate_ ), that it would be a lovely day ( _highly debatable_ ), Molly started to put on her coat. Sherlock helped her with her duffel bag, earning him a beautiful smile and another quick kiss (although both might also have been as reward for swallowing his protests).

“You know, it is…it is getting easier,” John said suddenly, causing them both to turn. “It is. I try to talk to Rosie about Mary as much as possible, every day, but sometimes…I don’t know, things appear from nowhere and kind of knock me sideways.”

Sherlock nodded, reminded once again of his friend’s enduring bravery, a bravery he wasn’t convinced he would be capable of in the same position. 

“Molls, make sure you get lots of photos of this bloke embracing the sea air,” John added, waggling his eyebrows at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to rebuke this when they were interrupted once again by the appearance of three small children on the stairs.

“Daddy!” William called. “I checked your drawers and found something you can wear at the beach – look!”

Molly reacted first, with a gasp of horrified laughter, a split second before Sherlock realised that his son was holding aloft a very small, very brightly-coloured item of underwear - if you could even call it that. An item that Molly had bought for him in jest several years ago, an item that was nevertheless worn occasionally on ‘special occasions’, an item that was most certainly _never_ supposed to be seen or handled by any third party – particularly not by their children, and particularly _not_ by visiting Watsons.

“Ten seconds to put that back where you found it or the beach trip is off!” Sherlock barked, feeling the back of his neck start to burn.

As he sprinted up the stairs towards a surprised-looking William, Teddy, and Rosie, Sherlock heard John quip, “Actually, don’t worry about the photos, Molls. If Sherlock wears that at the beach, I’m pretty sure I’m going to see it in the papers on Monday anyway.”


	11. The Birds and the Bea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie tests out her interrogating skills on Uncle Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very happy birthday to geekmama - this chapter is for you! (sorry that it isn't much of a surprise...!)

In theory, he was perfectly able to perform the two tasks at once, which was why his phone was next to his right elbow on the sofa, but he hadn’t checked it in nearly an hour. Tiredness played a small part in it, but the main culprit was right there in the crook of his left arm, her tiny but satisfyingly solid form sprawled across his chest. It was impossible for his attention to be anywhere else, really.

Sherlock Holmes was besotted. Completely smitten.

Over the past nine months he had refused to admit even to himself (and let alone to Molly) how much he wanted a daughter, but he would be sure to tell that to Beatrice Holmes once she was old enough to understand. He had known full well it was their last roll of the dice (at nearly forty-three, Molly had made it clear to him that the factory was now shutting down production), and Sherlock felt fortunate to have got lucky in this final play.

Their little girl was smaller than her brothers had been on arrival, but to Sherlock she seemed perfectly proportioned and already had a quietly determined air about her. And she  _did_  look like Molly, no doubt about it, with a covering of hazel hair and eyes so dark that Sherlock was convinced they would stay that way (although at only a week old, he knew it was technically too early to tell). The resemblance was something that Sherlock felt probably pleased him even more than it did his wife.

Bea shifted in her sleep, legs suddenly stretching in the hand-me-down onesie that was far too big for her (she would grow into them, Molly said – it wasn’t as though she had to carry out any complicated tasks on her own). Sherlock adjusted his hold on his daughter, immediately wincing and having to clamp down on a yelp.

His leg still felt as though it had been stabbed.

Which made sense, seeing as eight days earlier, he had in fact been stabbed.

The whole episode had been infuriating, and also slightly mortifying. When the assailant had come at him and John in the function room of the Finnish embassy, it had seemed tiresomely easy; not only did Sherlock swiftly relieve the man of his machete, but he also quickly took possession of the hunting knife concealed in the thug’s ankle holster. Unfortunately, he had  _not_  anticipated the small blade hidden inside the attacker’s shoe – which was very suddenly not in his shoe, and then almost as suddenly plunged into Sherlock’s thigh. As his gaze had moved back and forth between his attacker and his maimed leg, there had been a brief  _oh,_   _you’ve got to be kidding me?_  moment before the reality of the pain set in and he’d fallen sideways into a catering trolley.

Yet another decent scarf ruined by its use as a makeshift tourniquet (“Buy cheaper scarves – or, you know, don’t get stabbed,” had been John’s unhelpful input, as he aggressively ruined the cashmere garment). And this was before a scissor-happy paramedic had insisted on cutting his trouser leg off him, leaving him with a strange half-trouser, half-shorts combination.

Molly, however, had been far less concerned about the losses to his wardrobe. When she’d arrived in his hospital room, and once she had satisfied herself that he wasn’t dying, she promptly burst into tears. It was at that point that the shame and remorse had kicked in – up until that point he was still running on adrenaline, and annoyed at himself for failing to foresee the third knife, but Molly soon made him forget all of that. Flooded with pregnancy hormones, she couldn’t seem to decide whether she was furious with him or relieved that he was okay (the kissing/shouting combination had been very confusing, particularly in his weakened state).

Anyway, Molly was still blaming this incident for the fact that, less than two hours later, she was in labour. Luckily, they hadn’t actually left the hospital, and there followed a ridiculous scene where they  _both_  had to be transported by wheelchair from the Minor Injuries Unit ( _minor injuries!_ ) to the Maternity ward, Sherlock still wearing his ruined trousers and towing a saline drip.

Sherlock acknowledged that he hadn’t exactly been the best possible birth companion, confined as he was to a chair for most of Molly’s labour. He had tried not to think too much about the searing pain in his leg as one of the midwives handed him a glass of water and another couple of paracetamols – it was probably considered a Bit Not Good to request a second supply of Entonox (diamorphine was a no-no for obvious reasons). But Molly needed him, and he was there, and after (mercifully) only a couple more hours, so was their daughter. And when Molly reached for him and they shared an exhausted kiss, Sherlock understood that he was forgiven – there was no time to dwell, they had bigger things to deal with.

As he lay stretched out on the sofa now, he could almost feel himself dozing off when he heard the soft padding of feet on the wood floor.

“Is everything alright, Rosie?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

His goddaughter nodded, and as she came over, Sherlock carefully eased himself and Bea into a sitting position. Bea uttered a noise that sounded somewhat like a seabird in distress, which made Rosie giggle.

“Does your leg still hurt, Uncle Sherlock?” she whispered, with an expression of concern.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he told her.

Molly had insisted on giving the children a watered-down version of the facts, telling them all that Sherlock had ‘fallen on something sharp while trying to catch a bad person’. He went along with it, even though it somewhat down-played his brilliance, and made the incident sound more slapstick-comedy-sketch than life-or-death-combat.

“Can I look at her if I’m quiet?” Rosie asked, leaning in slightly.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about that, Rosie,” he replied. “Her brothers aren’t exactly excelling in that department.”

William and Teddy had so far shown only intermittent interest in their sister. William had been suspicious from the outset, as Bea’s unexpectedly early arrival meant that she failed to bring him a present as Teddy had done, and his general opinion since then seemed to be that the new baby was ‘boring’. Sherlock understood that completely – it was hard to deny that new babies  _were_  fundamentally extremely boring, although if they were your own, he had learned, they were also, paradoxically, completely captivating at the same time.

Teddy’s response had been to regress to infant mode himself, and he had to be repeatedly hauled out of Bea’s Moses basket or her car seat. Either that, or he tried to elbow his way onto Molly’s lap every time his sister required sustenance. Lestrade had reported that Teddy had even offered him his sister in exchange for a ride in a police car.

On this particular day, both boys were out with Sherlock’s parents, who on this visit had managed to combine their twin passions of visiting their grandchildren and berating their younger son for his thoughtlessness. As though to spite him, they had taken William and Teddy to some appalling-sounding children’s theatre production – although for the price of three hours of relative quiet, his parents could have taken his sons to a public hanging for all Sherlock cared.

"I'm pleased you and Aunty Molly decided to have a girl this time," Rosie announced, nudging her bottom onto a small gap on the sofa. 

"That's not quite how it works," Sherlock replied. "It's just random; nobody decides. We didn't actually know that Bea was a girl until she was born."

Rosie considered this for a moment.

"Oh. Well, then it was really unfair that William and Teddy were both boys. What if you hadn’t had another baby, and you’d just had two boys?"

Sherlock gave a sniff of laughter, although it was clear that Rosie was deadly serious.

“We’d have still had you,” he pointed out.

She wrinkled her nose, giving Sherlock a smile that suggested he was being weird, but she was going to allow it; it was one step away from rolling her eyes at him – just give her a couple of years.

"Uncle Sherlock?" Rosie continued after a moment, resting her elbows on her knees as she collected her thoughts.

"Hm?"

"How do babies get born?"

Sherlock blinked, gently cleared his throat, then blinked again. His goddaughter was watching him with a very expectant look. Generally speaking, he felt it was ridiculous and unnecessary to sugarcoat things for children - in his experience, children tended to understand and accept things far better than adults - but this was new territory for him.

"Well, it depends," he said, stalling. "For instance, William was born via a process called a Caesarean section. It's an operation wherein a surgeon uses a knife to-"

"-a knife?"

Rosie looked horrified, and he hadn't even got to the description of how the knife was used. In hindsight, probably not the best way to approach the subject.

"Did the surgeon cut Aunty Molly open and take William out?"

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head to one side.

"That was broadly what happened, yes," he confirmed, hurriedly adding, "Though it was perfectly fine and Aunty Molly wasn't in any pain."

_Unlike my recent knife-related encounter_ , he thought, allowing himself a moment of self-pity.

Now it was Rosie's turn to frown.

"But...okay. Were you there, Uncle Sherlock? Did you  _see_  the knife?"

Again, Sherlock wasn't in the habit of lying to the children in his care.

"I was there, yes - I was able to watch it happening on a screen, so that I didn't get in the way of the doctors."

At this, Rosie's look of horror returned, as though he was some terrible, depraved monster who derived thrills from watching his wife be savagely cut into by a group of strangers.

"It's fine," he heard himself saying again. "And actually, most babies - you, Teddy and Bea for instance - arrive via a different method, without knives."

Oh, now he'd done it. If ever there was a leading statement, that was it; now he was going to have to swiftly think of an age-appropriate way of describing the process of childbirth that both closed the subject to his satisfaction, but also ensured that Rosie didn’t suffer long-term mental trauma that would render her unable to contemplate bearing her own children.

But instead...

"So...how did Bea get inside Aunty Molly's tummy in the first place?"

Wow - that was…actually even worse. This would be the perfect moment for his week-old daughter to erupt into a hungry rage, thus derailing the whole course of the conversation, but naturally Bea refused to oblige him.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock began, stalling. "I, ah...has your daddy talked to you about any of this before, Rosie?"

For God's sake, John was a doctor - that was the least he could do. And if Sherlock found out that John had put him up to this in some way, he was going to have to hack his Tinder account again (the last time he had merely made an accurate amendment to his friend's height, but that was barely scratching the surface of the damage he could do).

"No, but Daddy only has me, and you’ve had three babies – well, Aunty Molly has - so I thought you'd  _definitely_  know," came the somewhat-logical response.

Somewhere out there, Sherlock could picture Mary hooting with laughter at his discomfort, saying  _Go on then, what are you waiting for?_ Once again, he thought about how lightly he had accepted the offered role of godfather - cake at the after-do, occasionally turn up for the celebration of milestones, guide Rosie step by step through the periodic table.  _This_ was not supposed to be his area.

He gave Bea a surreptitious little jolt, in case that would do the trick, but she didn't stir.

"Well, Rosie," he began, clearing his throat again. "Grown-ups, adults...they sometimes like each other so much that they...they want to give each other a...a special cuddle. And sometimes, as a result of that, a baby is, erm, made."

Immediately, he cringed at his use of the phrase 'special cuddle'. He was now no better than his own parents, who had merrily misled him for years over correct anatomical terminology (boarding school had proven a rude awakening).

It seemed to have got Rosie thinking, though; she nodded slowly, her brow furrowed in the exact same way that John's did when he was trying to follow Sherlock's line of thinking.

“So, you gave Aunty Molly a special cuddle to show how much you love her?”

At this moment, if someone had wanted to stab Sherlock in the other leg, he honestly wouldn’t have minded.

“Yes, I do – I mean, I did,” Sherlock confirmed. “It’s sort of a mutual thing. Aunty Molly is fairly keen on giving me special cuddles, too.”

“And that made a baby?”

“Yes.”

Rosie bit the edge of her lip into her mouth while she mulled this over for a moment. Sherlock felt himself almost holding his breath, glancing at the clock above the fireplace. Molly did say an hour’s nap, and technically an hour was up, so would it be completely unforgiveable to send Rosie up to wake her?

“So, Uncle Sherlock - is a special cuddle the same as sex?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from where his gaze had been resting on Bea’s head.

“Sorry, what?”

Rosie patiently repeated her question, adding, “Because Aunty Molly told me about  _that_.”

He felt his mouth fall open in a dumb display of confusion.

“When did Aunty Molly tell you about, ah, tell you about…that?” he asked, gingerly picking his way over the words.

Rosie shrugged, as though time was a mere social construct that made very little impact on her life.

“Not long ago. Before Bea was born,” she replied. “I asked her how come William and Teddy look like you but came out of  _her_  tummy. So she explained.”

It was hard to know what to say to this, but one very definite question sprung to mind, and it tumbled out of his mouth in a very undignified splutter.

“Rosie, if Aunty Molly explained it all to you, then why are you asking me?”

“Because it sounded so weird,” she replied, wrinkling her nose again in mild distaste. “I needed some corrugated evidence.”

“Corroborating evidence?” Sherlock queried. He couldn’t help but feel he knew where this quest for investigative rigour had come from, and it would be nothing but hypocrisy to be critical of Rosie’s approach.

She nodded vigorously.

“I understand completely,” he told her, shifting Bea a little higher onto his shoulder. “Because you’re right, it  _is_  weird. But then most of what human beings do makes little sense. Anyway, you don’t need to concern yourself with any of it for a long time yet - it was certainly a while before I gave it much serious consideration.”

“Yes, I know,” Rosie replied plainly. “Aunty Molly said that, too.”

Sherlock felt a muscle in his neck twitch.  

“Oh, she did, did she?”

It was heartening to know that his wife felt able to discuss his sexual history with their seven-year-old goddaughter; perhaps she could have seen fit to fill him in on their entire discourse before he found himself in this awkward conversational cul-de-sac. Anyway, he liked to think that during the last few years he’d gone some way towards making up for lost time.

“Is it okay if I have a drink?” Rosie asked, performing an abrupt change of subject.

A finger of whisky sounded like a remarkably good idea, but Sherlock suspected this wasn’t what Rosie had in mind. He told her to help herself, watching as she propelled herself from the sofa, planted a quick sisterly kiss on Bea’s head, and scuttered off towards the living room door. Sherlock wondered exactly when his goddaughter had sprouted those long limbs, and whether Molly had noticed too. It seemed improbable that one day, the helpless little parcel currently spread-eagled against his chest would be the same.

Sherlock glanced down at the product of his and Molly’s ‘special cuddling’ habit.

“I hope you were paying attention there, Beatrice,” he murmured against the soft fuzz covering the crown of her head. “Because you and I won’t be broaching _that_ subject again for at least twenty-five years, by which time, of course, you will be a brilliant and celebrated criminologist or research chemist.”

He could hear the clink of a glass on the kitchen table, the sound of the fridge door being closed.

“Although,” Sherlock continued, finger ghosting over the shell of his daughter’s ear. “If you have any questions in the intervening years, no matter how embarrassing they may seem, I recommend you have a word with your Uncle John.”


	12. Tidal Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie's curiosity about the past leads her to conclusions she doesn't like...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this next chapter posted - I kind of lost my way halfway through (but hopefully found it again - you can be the judge!). Geekmama (beta extraordinaire) turned this around incredibly quickly, though, which helped to make up for some of my sluggishness :-)
> 
> Prepare for a bit of angst alongside some Holmes family fluffiness...

Molly shuffled the last of the lunch dishes further along the kitchen counter in the general direction of the dishwasher; it was Will’s turn to empty and re-stack it, but that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. From the living room, she could hear a seemingly endless loop of Mozart’s  _Minuet_ , as her older son – overseen by Sherlock – practiced for his Grade 5 violin exam. Despite his natural talent, Will had a love/hate relationship with the violin, and his lessons with Sherlock had been known to come to an abrupt end with one or both of them flouncing out of the living room – but Molly knew that neither of them would want the lessons to stop.

Interspersed with Mozart-on-repeat were intermittent clattering sounds from the hallway, where Teddy had set up one of his labyrinthine marble-runs on the staircase. What had started as a seventh birthday present from his grandparents had turned into a project now in its third month, with Teddy’s piggy bank emptied to provide new ramps and junctions for his creation. The whole thing was undoubtedly a massive trip-hazard (Sherlock cursed it virtually every time he went up or down the stairs), but they were all forbidden to touch it – and when Bea had decided to ‘help’ the previous week, Teddy had sulked in the treehouse for an hour.

Bea was the only one who was currently in Molly’s line of sight; she was sitting in the dog bed, talking very animatedly to their beagle as she attempted to groom him with a doll’s hairbrush. Three years on, Molly still wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to getting a puppy just weeks after Bea was born, but it did mean that girl and dog were pretty inseparable – Bea, rather than Sherlock, was definitely his master.

At the time, it was agreed that one of the boys could choose the dog and the other one could name it – which was why they ended up with a beagle named Mycroft. William was insistent that the dog looked like their uncle when he was annoyed, and while Sherlock had used every bribe and incentive he could think of to prevent him having to call his brother’s name across the park and at crime scenes, Will couldn’t be bought. (Although, had Teddy done the naming and Will the choosing, they might be the proud owners of a noble bloodhound called Wrinkle-Face, which even Sherlock had to admit was worse.) Because family get-togethers started to get a little confusing as a result, canine Mycroft tended to be referred to as Mike instead (although Sherlock felt that Human Mycroft was just as likely to eat up dinner scraps as his canine namesake).

“Mummy, we hate that song!” Bea pronounced, frowning at the wall that adjoined the living room. Apparently, she was speaking for the dog, too, who in fairness did look equally put-out.

“I know, sweetheart,” Molly replied sympathetically. “But they’ll be finished soon, and then you’re all going out for a bit, aren’t you? To the pirate playground?”

This was the family shorthand for the Diana Memorial Playground, one of the few family-centric attractions in London that Sherlock could just about tolerate – he could even overlook the prevalence of sand, so long as he had a strong cup of coffee in his hand and could connect to a wi-fi hotspot.

“Are you coming, Mummy?” Bea asked, leaning over to rest her cheek on the dog’s back.

“I’m going to meet you later. I’ve got some work to do first, remember?”

“What work?” her daughter asked, suspiciously. All three children were always deeply mistrustful when either of their parents claimed to have something more important to do.

“People have sent lots of things for me to read,” Molly explained, dragging her laptop bag onto the dining room table.  

“What people?” Bea enquired, with a sceptical frown.   

Molly smiled; it clearly sounded to Bea as though this was an attempt on her mother’s part to indulge in the highly illegal activity of weekend relaxation.

“People who want to work at the hospital, I suppose. Or another hospital.”

In the past few years, Molly had found herself gradually shifting from the day-to-day work in the morgue to more regular hours in the path lab; Mike Stamford (who she usually had to refer to by his full name these days, to avoid further confusion with the dog) had given her additional responsibilities in supervising students on their placements – hence the paperwork - and was encouraging her to finally make the jump from Specialist Registrar to Consultant. She supposed she would probably have done it already if it wasn’t for the three small humans and the big lanky one who had gloriously and unexpectedly changed the course of her life.

As Molly started to make a pot of tea to accompany the assignments, she noticed both Bea and the dog cock an ear almost simultaneously. Then the dog let out a single bark.

“Doorbell!” Bea shouted, leaping up and running for the hallway, Mike not far behind her.

An identical cry came from Teddy on the stairs, and at the same time the sound of violin music came to an abrupt halt. Molly’s immediate thought was that she had forgotten something because, let’s face it, it was surprisingly easy to do these days. She hoped it wasn’t another reporter, or a particularly persistent client of Sherlock’s who’d discovered his home address (they tended to get very short shrift - partly because Sherlock kept a strict separation of work and home, but also, Molly suspected, because it was hard to maintain a carefully cultivated air of detachment and mystique while surrounded by scooters, Lego and abandoned socks).

"It's Rosie!" Teddy called, as Molly was emerging into the hallway.

They must have arranged something with John and then overlooked it – or maybe John and Rosie were going out with Sherlock and the children, and Sherlock had just forgotten to mention it. Molly was pretty sure that Rosie had swimming lessons on a Saturday afternoon, but maybe they'd come to an end. 

It was only once Molly had a clear view of the front door that certain things started to make sense; when she looked beyond her ten-year-old goddaughter, standing there on the step, she realised there was no adult in sight.

“Rosie, where’s you dad?” Molly asked, hurrying over, squeezing past the two small onlookers.

In those few seconds, she tried to gather as much data as possible: Rosie looked physically unharmed, she wasn’t crying. There was something amiss in what she was wearing, though – namely her brightly-coloured school backpack, and a slightly uncertain expression.

“Um, he’s just at home…I think,” she replied, hesitantly.

“You think?” Molly said, ushering Rosie into the house and closing the door. “He didn’t come with you?”

“Well…no,” Rosie said, uneasily. “I kind of came by myself.”

“You…by yourself,” Molly echoed, feeling her chest tighten. “But how did you get here?”

Rosie shrugged.

“Just the Tube. I’ve got my Zip Oyster card.”  

“Cool!” declared Teddy, who was too easily thrilled by deviant behaviour.

 “Oh, that’s not fair!” came the voice of Will, who Molly wasn’t even aware was in the room. “How come Rosie’s allowed to go on the Tube by herself and I’m not? She’s only a  _bit_  older than me.”

 One of Will’s latest obsessions was the London Underground; he was fascinated by the network, the routes and in particular the old, disused (or never used) stations. He kept a record of every station he’d visited - could name each one and give you a selection of statistics on them - and was determined to tick off every single one.

“I’m fairly certain she’s  _not_ ,” came Sherlock’s reply, as he emerged from the living room.

 A quick glance at her husband told Molly that he was as concerned as she was, perhaps more so.

 “You’ve had a disagreement with your dad, and now you want to know whether you can come and live here instead?” Sherlock said, after only a couple of moments.

It was more statement of fact than question, and Molly saw Rosie’s expression change; Sherlock was right, and she hated it. It explained the backpack, though.

“Is that it?” Molly prompted gently.

Sherlock still occasionally forgot that sometimes, just sometimes, people liked to have the chance to explain themselves, rather than being deduced (it took a while for him to understand that when his children excitedly said “guess what?”, the last thing they wanted him to do was actually guess).

“Can I?” Rosie quickly asked. “I could sleep in with Bea, and I can help you look after her.”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Bea shrieked, each utterance punctuated by a jump, causing the dog to run in an excited circle. “Come on, Rosie!”

Bea grabbed Rosie’s coat-sleeve, trying to drag her towards the stairs, decision clearly made in her mind. Before she could get very far, though, Sherlock had put out his arm to hold them back; Molly could see he was about to say something when his attention was drawn instead to his buzzing phone. He made the briefest of eye-contact with her, enough to confirm her instinct that it was John calling.

“Yes, John, she’s here…” Sherlock said, before ducking back into the living room.

The second he’d gone, Rosie thrust her hands into her jeans pockets.

“I’m not talking to him,” she said defiantly. “And I’m  _not_  going home.”

“I ran away, too, you know,” Teddy put in, with a nonchalant air.

Molly heard a snort from Will, sounding exactly like his father.

“No, you didn’t,” he told his brother. “The neighbour’s garden doesn’t count. And anyway, we could see you from the attic.”

Teddy had indeed made a bid for independence a few weeks earlier, but spurred on more by the spirit of exploration than by discontentment with his family. Molly still felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t noticed his absence for half an hour, and could still vividly recall the stab of panic she’d felt when he didn’t respond to her calling his name. Eventually, Will had spotted his brother from his favoured bolt-hole at the top of the house, by which time Teddy had managed to make it as far as the neighbour’s back garden three doors down, either by scaling fences, finding holes in them, or squeezing through foliage (Molly was still picking dead leaves out of his curls the next morning).

“Mummy!”

“Hm, sorry, what?” Molly replied, distracted as she tried to make out the phone call going on in the next room.

“Is Rosie going to stay?” Bea asked with a note of impatience.

“Well, we’re definitely not going to throw her out into the street,” Molly told her, catching a tiny smile flicker across Rosie’s face before being quickly banished. “But I think Rosie needs to come into the sitting room with me for a few minutes, and the rest of you can start getting ready to go out.”

There was a collective whine and some low-level grumbling from the younger members of the Holmes family. Molly felt she was probably only stalling for time; she couldn’t see how, in their current uncertain situation, she was going to be sitting down reading assignments anytime soon.

She pointed at each one of them in turn.

“William – violin away, shoes on, find everyone’s Oyster cards; Teddy – proper trousers, please, then shoes; and Bea – have a go putting your shoes on, and bring me Mike’s lead  _and_  your hairbrush.”

“No hairbrush!” Bea protested.

Molly sighed; admittedly, it wasn’t the time to reopen the campaign to tame her daughter’s hair (thank god Bea had inherited her straight hair, at least).

“Everyone, go,” Molly said, with a shooing motion. “Rosie will still be here when you come back.”

All three of them were too curious to find out what was going on, but eventually they got the message. As they dispersed, Molly noticed Will looking back briefly at Rosie, although Rosie was looking at the hallway floor at that moment. In the past year or so, their older son had started to change; it had taken Molly a while to put her finger on it, but empathy was at the heart of it – William had gained an insight into other people, watched them closely, started to put himself in their shoes. He seemed to reserve a special sort of quiet watchfulness for Rosie, though, and Molly wondered whether he felt protective of her, picking up on the way Sherlock was with her and following his lead.

Molly gave a quick knock at the living room door and opened it, encouraging Rosie in ahead of her. Sherlock was no longer on the phone, instead sitting in his favoured chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Molly assumed that Toby had been chased  _off_  the chair, judging by the narrow-eyed stare their aged cat was giving Sherlock from his position on one of the sofa cushions.

She could see by the set of Sherlock’s jaw and a quality in his eyes that he had heard something from John that he hadn’t been expecting; that this was not just a disagreement over clothes or schoolwork or whether Rosie could have a phone. Molly guided Rosie over to the sofa, taking her hand as they sat down together.

“Your, ah, your dad’s calmed down a little,” Sherlock said, in a low, gentle tone that made Molly feel another, sudden rush of love for him. “But I think you gave him a fright.”

 Rosie withdrew her hand from Molly’s, shoving it underneath her leg instead.

“I don’t care,” she replied, tersely. “He deserved it.”

Molly saw Sherlock’s gaze meet hers for a moment, before he regrouped.

“I know you feel that way, Rosie, but it wasn’t right to disappear like that,” he continued. “London is a busy city, and not everyone you meet has good intentions.”

“I’m not stupid!” Rosie retorted. “I know that! But I’ve been on the Tube millions of times and I knew the way. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“We’re always happy to see you,” Molly put in, chancing the action of resting her hand on Rosie’s knee. Rosie stared at it as though it was an unwanted tarantula. “But I know you know this wasn’t the right thing to do, whatever happened with your dad.”

“You asked him about your mum,” Sherlock said, trying to urge her to meet his gaze. “About how she died. Because someone at school asked you.”

Molly felt her heart lurch into her throat, but she forced it back down. So many times over the years – since before Rosie could even talk - she and Sherlock had lain in the darkness of their bedroom, talking in whispers about this very thing, this very scenario. There was no reason this should come as a surprise, but the suddenness of it left her feeling completely unprepared.

“He always said she died by accident,” Rosie said. “That she wasn’t meant to get hurt, but she did anyway.”

“That’s right,” Sherlock replied, swallowing. “Your dad was telling you the truth. What…what was it that he told you today that upset you so much?”

Molly knew exactly what was on his mind at that moment – but that he was ready to face it when it hit.

“I didn’t know he was there with her,” Rosie replied. “He was right  _there_  when she died, that’s what he said!”

“Rosie,” Sherlock said, his lips pursing for a moment as though knowing he had one chance to get this right. “You know that sometimes in the kind of work we do, your dad and I, we are brought into contact with people who are not very nice, to say the least - people who have done terrible things.”

“And you catch them,” Rosie nodded. “I know that.”

“Yes. Sometimes,” Sherlock replied, his measured tone meeting Rosie’s slight indignation. “But even when they’re caught, some people want to feel as though they’ve still won; want you to know that you haven’t taken away all of their power. Do you understand that?”

Rosie shrugged, and this was enough for her godfather to continue.

“Well, that’s what happened that day, with your mum,” he said, his voice quavering for a moment. “I was with her. And it’s true – Mar-…your mum wasn’t supposed to get hurt…I was. The person we’d caught wanted to hurt me, so she could show me that I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was.”

Molly felt herself aching for both of them all over again, unsure of where to put herself or what to say that could be of any comfort to either.

“It was a lady?” Rosie asked. It was clearly a detail that John had left out of his bare-bones explanation.

“Yes, an older woman, someone who worked quietly in an office for most of her life,” Sherlock confirmed. "Bad people come in all shapes and sizes, Rosie. It took me a surprisingly long time to work that out.”

“But why didn’t my dad  _do_  anything!” Rosie hit back, the crux of her anger and pain bursting to get out. “He’s a doctor, and he was there, and he didn’t  _do_  anything to save  _her_.”

This time, Molly didn’t care if Rosie didn’t want it; she put her arm around the little girl’s shoulders, her hand clasping the top of her arm. She could feel that Rosie was almost shaking with indignation and the sudden release of adrenaline.

“Your dad got there just after it happened,” Sherlock told her, slowly, calmly. “But even if he’d been right there, Rosie, there was nothing he could have done – your mum was too badly hurt.”

“But he’s saved people before, hasn’t he?” Rosie pressed. “My dad. He was a doctor in the army, and people get shot and bombed and everything in the army. And you’ve told me about other times he’s saved people’s lives, Uncle Sherlock, when you’ve been solving stuff together.”

Molly could see a flicker of desperation in Sherlock’s eyes, as though he didn’t know how to add to what he’d already said, that he’d played his hand and now he had nothing.

“It’s just unfair, Rosie,” Molly said, before she really knew she was going to say it. “It’s horribly, horribly unfair, and all of us – everyone –wish things were different, because your mum didn’t deserve that, but when she got hurt, it… it was just one of those injuries that takes people away very quickly.”

She could feel a familiar thickness rising in the back of her throat, and it made her squeeze Rosie a little tighter – for whose benefit, she wasn’t sure.

“And you know what?” Molly continued. “It’s fine to be angry, it’s normal to be angry, and none of us think that’s wrong – but don’t be angry at your dad.”

Rosie’s shoulders heaved once, and Molly felt her shudder.

“He should have looked after her,” Rosie said, more quietly now. “Like Uncle Sherlock looks after you.”

“Aunty Molly looks after me, too,” Sherlock put in. “And your mum looked after your dad. But, Rosie, your dad never stopped doing that, even up to the very last moment. He and your mum both knew that she…that nobody could help her, so your dad did the only thing he could do.”

Molly could hear the slight tremble return to Sherlock’s voice, and it was obvious to her that he was reliving it. He’d described to her, words spilling like a dam being opened, how he’d stood there in the darkness of the aquarium, almost paralysed by his own powerlessness. How he felt he had no right to witness Mary’s last moments, John’s last seconds with his wife, particularly given the role he believed he had played. But how he also couldn’t turn away – how he didn’t deserve to be spared the agony.

Molly knew enough of the events to feel sufficiently confident to take over from Sherlock.

“He was there right until the end, sweetheart,” she said in a firm whisper. “He hugged your mum tightly and told her how much he loved her, and – and I know that’s what she must have needed right then. It was everything.”

Tears stung her own eyes now, as they did whenever Molly allowed herself to imagine what Mary must have felt in those last moments,  _knowing_  they were her last, knowing she would never go home. But it was right for Rosie to see this, right that she should understand how much her mother was loved and missed.

Rosie was quiet now, suddenly looking much smaller, her anger apparently draining away to make room for something else. From elsewhere in the house, Molly could hear the thuds and raised voices of her own children in the process of getting ready, and she willed them not to come barrelling into the living room any time soon (tact and timing were skills that certainly neither Teddy nor Bea had yet mastered).

 “Do I have to go home now?” Rosie asked, barely looking up.

“Do you want to?” Sherlock asked.

Rosie shrugged, her hand creeping across the sofa cushion to gently stroke Toby’s back.

“You dad will probably want to talk to you a bit more,” Molly suggested. “But…maybe you could start by speaking to him on the phone?”

She glanced at Sherlock before she spoke again.

“I’ll ring him, and we’ll both talk to him,” Molly continued. “And if he says it’s okay, perhaps you could stay here - just for tonight. Although you’ve got to promise that you’ll let your dad pick you up first thing tomorrow and talk to him properly.”

Rosie glanced up, suddenly looking as though a cloud had lifted.

“Is that a deal?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

She nodded.

“Good girl,” he smiled. “Now, you and Aunt Molly see to that phone call, and I’ll go and see which new parts of the house the other three miscreants have managed to destroy in the past fifteen minutes.”

 

0000000

A little over ten minutes later, things were starting to look somewhat clearer and more hopeful. John, although understandably still recovering from the shock of Rosie’s disappearance – and the discovery that his daughter was strong-headed enough to go to those lengths – had calmed down sufficiently to hold a measured conversation with her. He’d confided to Molly that he hadn’t for a moment considered what those new details about Mary’s death might mean to Rosie, how she would interpret them; Molly just hoped he wouldn’t use this as an excuse to reinstate those deep-seated feeling of guilt he’d held for so long.

John had conceded, too, that it might not be a bad idea for Rosie to stay with them for the night – it would give them both a little more time and space to gather their thoughts. As it was just the two of them, Molly knew that John and Rosie had an intense bond that, while by and large was a wonderful thing, also had the potential to make Rosie feel cosseted and claustrophobic, especially while she was still too young to go off and develop other relationships.

“Do you want to go out with the others, or stay here with me?” Molly asked, as she opened the door to the hallway again. She had already resigned herself to not getting any work done that afternoon.

Rosie replied that she wanted to go out, and Molly suggested that she go and help Bea round up the dog and get him ready to leave, too. As Rosie was heading towards the kitchen, she passed Sherlock coming from that direction. He performed a quick deduction of Rosie as she passed by, then ambled over to where Molly was leaning against the living room doorframe.

“I hope you were able to gain John’s consent to Rosie staying the night,” he said. "Because Bea has taken the presumptive move of setting up her bed."

 "On her own?" Molly gaped, picturing their three-year-old running herself over with the roll-out bed.

"William was her co-conspirator," Sherlock replied. "Or possibly her manservant. Either way, it will need to pass a safety inspection later on."

He smiled, slipping his hand lazily around Molly's waist.

"In other news, Teddy has requested to go to the park dressed as a highwayman. Do we have a problem with that?"

Molly gave a sniff of laughter. Teddy had discovered an old riding cape in an outbuilding at the home of Sherlock's parents, which they had gladly let him keep.

"We do not," she smiled back. "As long as he doesn't get too far in character."

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock replied. "At least it's more up-front than pick-pocketing. Could be an interesting challenge; he and I could see which of us has more success in our techniques."

Molly prodded him in the chest.

"If you both get arrested," she said. “Just remember that I’m only coming for Teddy.”

"Hm," Sherlock nodded. "So, I trust the conversation with John went okay?"

She tilted her head to one side with a small shrug of resignation.

“It must feel like being suddenly washed out to sea,” she said. “One minute you’re paddling in the shallow water, holding hands and just focusing on what’s ahead, and then…then your feet just go from under you, and you can’t breathe.”

“But then the tide ebbs and you get up again,” Sherlock murmured.

Molly wound her own arms around Sherlock’s waist and drew him slowly around the doorframe and into the living room. Quietly nudging the door almost closed behind them, she arched up on her tiptoes to kiss him, slowly, fondly. It wasn’t quite the shoving-up-against-the-door that used to occur between them a few years earlier (although Molly hoped she hadn’t seen the last of that), but Sherlock still looked pleased at the surprise of it. When they broke apart, he raised his eyebrow in a question.

“Because I never want to take this for granted,” Molly explained. “Never.”

Sherlock nodded, thoughtfully.

“All this serves to remind me of the detail that John must have left out,” he said, moistening his lips. “That Mary didn’t just die accidentally; she took the bullet that was intended for me. John’s protecting me. Because if Rosie understood that detail, she would hate me.”

It had occurred to Molly, too; if Rosie considered what she knew from a slightly different angle, it could look very different to her – and not just on that score.

“I think he’s protecting Mary, too,” she said quietly. “If Rosie…if she came to believe that her mum made a choice, well…maybe John’s worried Rosie might hate _her_ , too.”

“It will come out eventually,” Sherlock said. “Nothing stays truly hidden forever. And it’s going to have to come from John, or you or me, because Rosie is bright and she’s curious, and soon she’ll be old enough to go digging on her own – or she might hear it from someone else. We can’t allow that to happen.”

Molly sought Sherlock’s hand with hers. She was reminded of the conversations they had had over the years, usually started by Sherlock, wondering what they would tell William, Teddy and Bea about the past – and how they’d do it. Sherlock’s jump from Bart’s, his two years in exile? There were ways to tell that story. Sherlock’s thrall to addiction, his lapses, his recovery? Molly felt strongly that that one should be told. But what about Charles Magnussen or the truth about Eurus? Those stories were more than a sudden wave, they were potential tsunamis.

But then she hadn’t entered into parenthood with Sherlock with her eyes closed.

“We won’t,” Molly assured him, offering him a hopeful smile. “But maybe we can’t just wait around for the next big wave.”

Sherlock nodded, his gaze on their joined hands.

“I’ll go and see John this evening, once the children are in bed,” he said.

 “Thank you,” Molly whispered, reaching up to kiss him again.

Sherlock glanced behind him as the door began to open, slowly at first, and then more decisively, forcing him to move away from it. A small hand curled around the door, followed by the appearance of a small head.

“What are you doing in here?” Bea asked, again with her trademark suspicion.

“I thought we were going out?” came Will’s voice from just behind them.

“They’re kissing,” Bea reported, matter-of-factly.

An outpouring of exaggerated disgust and gagging noises could be heard from the hallway, which made Molly press her lips together in amusement and Sherlock roll his eyes.

“Actually, I was just about to suggest to Daddy that you could all go for pizza in the café in the park,” Molly replied brightly. “That sounds okay, doesn’t it?”

Molly heard a small choking noise escape Sherlock, just as the children were erupting into whoops.

“I have to get _some_ work done today, Sherlock,” she reasoned, aiming for a tone of justified innocence.

“In that case, Molly, which one of the children are you least attached to?” he queried.  “Because clearly I’m going to have to sell one of them to pay for dinner.”

Molly grinned up at him.

“Your choice,” she replied. “Though best not make it Rosie. She’s not strictly ours to sell.”

Sherlock gave a brief harrumph but buttoned his jacket and straightened his cuffs in the manner of a man heading into battle. Molly then squeezed past the throng of children and animals (Toby having made a cautious foray into the hallway, too) to reach Rosie, who was busy zipping up her jacket.

“Are you okay now?” Molly asked, quietly.

Rosie nodded, allowing Molly to give her another quick hug.

“Look after them all for me,” she told her goddaughter, whose face spread into a smile in response.

William led the charge out of the front door, with Rosie falling into step behind him, followed by Mike leading Bea in a trot, and finally Teddy sweeping out dramatically in his riding cape and homemade mask. When Sherlock reached the door, Molly reached up to pull him in for another kiss.

“Look after her, Sherlock,” she told him, placing a hand on his chest.

He regarded her, immediately understood.

“Of course,” he replied.

Molly returned to the living room, laptop in hand, just in time to see three curly heads, one blonde one and a pair of very messy pigtails disappear behind a hedge towards the end of the road.

Now, all of a sudden, the house felt far too quiet.

 

 


	13. Clair de la Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Rosie make some discoveries, while Rosie is at home recovering from illness..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is little more than fluff with a bit of Mary-related angst thrown in – not a lot of plot to speak of! 
> 
> I wanted to write something reflecting that Rosie is creeping towards adulthood, and continuing to question the past. 
> 
> Thank you to geekmama for the ‘next day delivery’ beta-ing service!

“This reminds me of when you were little,” Molly said, as she set a glass of water on the coffee table, close enough for Rosie to reach it. “When I used to pick you up from your nursery on my afternoon off and look after you until your dad got home. Sometimes here, and sometimes at my old flat.”

She paused for a moment, suddenly astonished by just how long ago it was; the flat had been sold more than ten years ago now.

“You probably can’t remember that,” Molly added. “You were only tiny.”

Rosie nodded, tugging the fleece blanket up over her pyjamas a little more.

“No, I do,” she replied, her throat still slightly hoarse. “Not your old flat, but I can kind of remember playing at your house, and Will being there. Teddy was a baby.”

Molly’s mind flashed up an image of her now-ten-year-old son, who had recently had a growth spurt and was threatening to catch up with William – and in turn overtake  _her_. She had accepted a long time ago that one day she would be the smallest person in the family – but it couldn’t help but want to make her freeze time on Bea for a little longer.

“How do you feel today?” Molly asked, sitting down on the edge of the armchair, wrapping her hands around the mug of tea she’d recently made. “You look a lot better, definitely more like Rosie.”

Rosie granted her a smile. It had only been tonsillitis, but it was a nasty strain, knocking her out for two whole weeks. At first, Will and Teddy had been desperate to catch it, too, requesting that Rosie breathe heavily on them in the hope that it would lead to a few days off school, but they seemed less keen when they saw how long it was dragging on.

“M’alright,” Rosie confirmed. “I was getting bored of being in bed.”

Molly smiled.

“That’s probably a good sign,” she said.

She reached down beside the sofa and hauled up her old duffel bag; it no longer accompanied Molly to work, but it was still intact, and she was too attached to the bag to just throw it away – plus, it had always been just the right size for everything she needed for a day. Back when she first bought it, just before beginning the first year of foundation training, it was stuffed full of spare clothes, quick-to-eat snacks, copies of  _The Lancet_  and  _Pathology Today_  (subscribed to with good intentions, at least) and an actual, physical diary so she didn’t forget to turn up for her shifts. A few years later, the same bag would - alongside her lunchbox and make-up bag - groan with the weight of tightly-sealed plastic bags containing whatever spare body parts the mortuary had offered up on any given day. Molly reflected on this for a moment - god, she really did fancy Sherlock something stupid to risk doing  _that_ for so long. If Bea ever did something so casually reckless over a boy, she would be appalled.

On this particular day, though, the contents of the duffel were completely different.

“Will gave me some books to pass on to you,” Molly said, retrieving the two well-thumbed paperbacks and holding them out to Rosie. “I think he thought you might have nothing left to read.”

“Oh yeah, he texted me about that,” Rosie replied vaguely, turning one of the books over to read the back of the jacket.

Molly took in this information. Will texted Rosie about books.  _Will was texting Rosie._ This shouldn’t really come as a surprise; Will and his friends were probably texting constantly, but still. There were whole new worlds that her children were starting to inhabit, into which she and Sherlock would probably only be allowed tiny, select glimpses. Sherlock was going to  _hate_  that.

“I’ll text him back and say thanks,” Rosie added, smiling.

“Bea drew you a picture, too,” Molly said, unfolding the piece of coloured paper and holding it up for Rosie.

“Oh, that’s really sweet,” Rosie replied, unable to keep a slight furrow from her brow.

“Don’t worry, I had to ask her what it was, too,” Molly smiled. “It’s supposed to be you and Bea battling with some Streptococcal bacteria. I think those might be lightsabers.”

In addition, Molly also dug out a new pair of pyjamas she’d bought for Rosie on impulse while fighting her way around the shops with Bea, and a tin of stretchy green slime on the insistence of Teddy, who seemed certain it was exactly what Rosie would want if she was bored and confined to bed.

“Don’t suppose you feel well enough for some banana bread?” Molly asked, pulling the final item, a plastic box, out of her bag. “Might give you a bit of energy? My mum always made it for me when I was poorly.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Molly felt her stomach drop.

“Oh, Rosie, I’m so sorry, that was-” she said quickly. “Don’t listen to me. I just wasn’t thinking properly when I spoke, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Rosie looked at her quizzically for a moment before the recognition settled into her expression.

“Oh. That’s okay,” she replied, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “I hadn’t even…you know, thought about it that way.”

Molly nodded, wondering if she’d actually now made it worse by drawing attention to it; she had a lifelong habit of trying to make up for indiscretions with nervous babble, but thought she might have been over that by her late-forties.   

She stood up far enough to shuffle her chair a little close to the sofa, then opened up the plastic box of banana bread and lifted out a slice, breaking it in half for them to share. Molly licked her fingers – really, it was more cake than bread, which was probably why there had been whines of protest when she had been spotted boxing it up at home to bring out with her.

“Your mum was really good at baking,” Molly ventured, popping a chunk of cake into her mouth. “She made amazing bread.”

Rosie smiled, cradling her cake in the palm of her hand so that she could pick up small crumbs.

“I know,” she said. “Dad told me. I think it was when he tried to help me make some biscuits for the first time, for a sale at school – he wasn’t very good at it, but I think he didn’t want me to feel like…I dunno, that I was missing out, or something.”

On hearing this, Molly felt a rush of affection and admiration for John. She knew how much he tried to be everything for Rosie – trying even though he knew it was impossible – but this was a tale she hadn’t heard before. There were probably hundreds more like it.

“I think maybe your mum found it relaxing,” Molly said. “Although I also think her baking is why your dad bought a bike and started cycling to work.”

Rosie rolled her eyes; Molly knew how embarrassed her goddaughter was these days by the sight of her dad in Lycra and cycling cleats.

Molly could still remember Sherlock’s slightly snarky observation to her – shortly after the Watsons’ wedding, and long before they were together – that John’s waistline was all the evidence anyone should need that marriage was an unhealthy and idiotic institution. To John’s vexation, Sherlock had somehow managed to maintain a trim physique past the age of fifty, without so much as _looking_ at a bike – a pact with the devil, John groused. (Molly had no idea how either, although she  _definitely_  wasn’t going to complain, demonic deal or not).  

Rosie finished her mouthful of cake, and Molly saw her dart a glance her way; she could tell Rosie wanted to ask her a question, but she seemed apprehensive about the topic.

“Aunt Molly,” Rosie began, tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. “When did your mum die?”

Immediately, she could see that Rosie regretted asking the question, but she understood completely why she was asking now – and not just because of the cake. Molly leaned forward slightly, setting her cup back down on the table.

“I was twelve,” she told her. “So just a bit younger than you are now. But my mum was poorly for quite a long time – she had cancer, and back then there weren’t as many treatments available as there are now. When I think about it now, I suppose I feel lucky that I was old enough to know my mum pretty well, and that I did have time to say a proper goodbye, but at the time it…it was horrible. It felt incredibly unfair, and I got upset when I thought about growing up, going to university, possibly getting married, and my mum not being there to see any of it.”

Molly paused, gauging the effect her words were having on Rosie.

“Do you think about those things sometimes?”

Rosie nodded, gaze firmly fixed on the swirling patterns of the blanket.

“It’s just…it’s weird not remembering my mum at all,” she said eventually. “Like, when I see photos and videos of her, it’s like looking at someone I don’t know. Except that she’s with my dad, and she looks a bit like me.” 

She drew her knees up closer to her chest under the cover.

“Dad thought that I would maybe remember her voice,” Rosie continued. “You know, because of hearing it before I was born.”

  
Molly nodded, immediately remembering her own habit of talking to Will before he was born, when they were alone together – in the shower, at night when Sherlock was working, even when she was standing in the aisle at the supermarket trying to remember what she was supposed to be buying. And she thought of Sherlock, too, stretched out with her on the bed at Baker Street, his face level with her rounded belly, unable to hide his delight when the baby seemed to respond to his voice.

“I think Dad would like me to be able to,” Rosie added. “But I…I don’t really know if I can. Sometimes I think maybe I  _do_  remember it, but then other times I think maybe it’s just because I’ve heard her voice in videos. It kind of gets mixed up.”

Molly slid her hand along the blanket so she could cover Rosie’s.

“I understand,” Molly said, recognizing that instinct to try to make things right for others. “Don’t worry about your dad, though, sweetheart – it’s only because he thinks it would be a nice thing for you.”

Molly wasn’t about to tell Rosie that as the years went on, sometimes she, too, struggled to conjure up Mary’s voice precisely. She had to make herself focus on her friend saying particular phrases or words – calling John ‘darling’ when she wanted him to do something, trading playful insults with Sherlock – in order to recall the right cadence and tone. But then it would all come back, like switching on the radio and hearing a song she hasn’t heard for years.

“You mum had a brilliant laugh,” Molly continued, tapping Rosie’s knee with her knuckle. “And she was very, very funny. I…I didn’t know her for very long, but she was just a really,  _really_  good friend. And not just to me – until your mum came along, I don’t think your Uncle Sherlock had really ever had a female friend, someone that he trusted and respected and just  _liked_. She didn’t care that he was clever, or that he was famous – and your mum wouldn’t let him hide behind those things either, if he was being a-”

Molly cut herself off with a smile.

“Well, I was going to say something else there, but maybe I’ll just say ‘when your Uncle Sherlock was being difficult.’”

“S’okay,” Rosie grinned. “I’ve heard what my dad calls him sometimes. I’ve been helping Will to keep a list.”

 “Um, why do you need a list?” Molly queried, pursing her lips. She probably didn’t need to ask – William was at the age where just the acquisition of new and exotic swearwords was a very serious pursuit.

“You won’t tell Uncle Sherlock?”

Molly folded her arms across her chest; she wasn’t committing herself either way on that one, but she and Rosie understood each other well enough to know where the lines of confidentiality between adults and children were drawn.

“It’s for Uncle Sherlock’s birthday,” Rosie divulged. “Will wants to get him a t-shirt made.”

Molly tried to suppress – or at least limit – the smile that came over her, knowing she probably shouldn’t find that quite so funny as she did. It typified the relationship between Will and Sherlock; Will hadn’t exactly lost that sense of hero-worship and awe, but as adolescence fast approached, those feelings now tended to be expressed through gentle derision and ridicule, Will pushing the boundaries as much as he could. It had been funny for Molly to see this evolution taking place, and particularly Sherlock’s reaction to it; it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him, considering  _he_  still mocked his  _own_  father’s habits and foibles, even though Timothy Holmes was now a spritely eighty-nine years old.

 "I think I can keep that secret," Molly told her, smiling. "Although I can't promise to protect either of you when Uncle Sherlock opens his present."

Molly helped them both to some more banana bread, pleased to see that Rosie had an appetite. She'd brought some work with her in case Rosie was asleep or wanted to watch a film, and she was about to ask when Rosie spoke again.

"Aunty Molly, can I...can I show you something?"

Molly found herself glancing around the immediate area, assuming the something was close to hand.

"Yeah, of course you can," she replied.

Rosie drew back the blanket, kicking her feet free of the tangle that the edges had made.

"Do you need me to help you get anything?" Molly asked.

"No, I'm okay," Rosie replied, as she stood up. "It's just in my room."

A minute or so later, Rosie was back; she'd pulled a zip-up hoodie over her pyjamas, and was carrying a lidded box, cream in colour, and a little larger than a shoebox. As Rosie placed it beside her on the sofa, Molly could see that the box was covered with a pattern of pale pink roses.

"Dad gave it to me," Rosie said, by way of explanation. "Just the other day. I...I haven't shown it to anyone."

Molly instantly knew that there was some connection to Mary; John kept a neat, ordered home, often stored things in labelled boxes (a hangover from the army, Molly always assumed, and the complete opposite of Sherlock), but rose-patterned gift boxes were not really his style.

“Can I open it?” Molly asked, when Rosie didn’t move to do it herself.

Rosie nodded, and Molly shifted across to the sofa so that the box was sandwiched between them. There was still a smear of fine dust on the lid, indicating that it had been stored somewhere for a fairly long time, but the pattern was consistent on each side of the box, so it had been kept away from sunlight (twelve years married to Sherlock, it was hard  _not_  to notice these details). When she moved the box to her knee, Molly suddenly picked up a waft of fragrance, something familiar; as she slowly eased off the lid, she knew.

“ _Clair de_ _la_ _Lune_ ,” she whispered, almost before she’d fully processed the information.

Immediately, the memories started to surge to the forefront of her mind all at once: meeting Mary for the first time, in the living room at 221B, not long after Sherlock’s return; hugging her in the garden at the wedding reception; sitting beside her on this very sofa, in this very living room, holding – for the first time - the very girl who was beside her right now.

“It was your mum’s favourite perfume,” Molly said, gathering herself a little. “She always wore it.”

Rosie reached into the box, rummaging beneath the other contents until she pulled out a tiny sample vial of the perfume to show Molly.

“Did…” Molly began, confident that she already knew the answer. “Did your dad put all of these things together for you?”

Rosie turned the vial over between her fingers.

“No, he said my mum did,” she replied. “He said he didn’t open it for years, and then he just thought it was a load of photos – but there’s other stuff in here too, as well as this perfume.”

It made complete sense; Mary knew – she  _must_  have known about the powerful connection between scent and memory. And it was more than that – Rosie had photos to see what her mother looked like, she had videos that enabled her to hear her, and this was her way of conveying to Rosie something of what it was like to be surrounded by the scent of her.

One by one, each item in the box was removed, Molly feeling Rosie huddling closer to her as they talked about what they were looking at.

“I remember your mum showing me this,” Molly said, holding between thumb and forefinger a shiny printed ultrasound scan. “I was over at Baker Street with Sherlock when your mum and dad came from the hospital. They were so excited.”

That was true – in fact, it was the first time Molly had really seen Mary expressing enthusiasm about her pregnancy. At the time, she’d assumed that it had just taken a long time for it to sink in, to feel real; it only occurred to Molly later that perhaps it hadn’t been completely planned – or that it had happened sooner than Mary was ready for.

“Your mum was trying to get Sherlock to be excited as well,” Molly added. “She wouldn’t stop waving this photo in his face until he looked at it properly and admitted how brilliant it was.”

What she didn’t tell Rosie was Sherlock’s subsequent observation that the child in the scan looked like the advance party of an invading alien race (she felt that he had sufficiently made it up to Rosie – and John - in the intervening years).

Beneath the scan photo was one of Rosie’s identification tags from the hospital when she was born, a very small knitted baby hat, a pair of tiny striped socks and – what was contributing most to the weight of the box – a clay tile holding an imprint of Mary’s hand alongside Rosie’s. In an envelope, they found an unsent invitation from Mary and John’s wedding, tucked in amongst a dozen or so dried flower petals – lilies, white roses, lovingly pressed from Mary’s bouquet (for a moment Molly tried to remember who caught the bouquet – although at the time she’d just been relieved it wasn’t her).

“I had a look at these photos,” Rosie said, shuffling the small stack into a neater pile on her knee. “I hadn’t seen most of them – the wedding ones - just the ones Dad’s got in a frame in his room.”

As they looked through them, Molly was determined to swallow the lump forming somewhere deep down behind her throat; that wasn’t what Rosie needed, not today.

“Have you see the size of Nana Martha’s hat?” Rosie exclaimed, holding up a photo of her other godmother arm in arm with her plus-one, Mr Chatterjee.

“She said it was so she could take home some leftovers from the reception,” Molly smiled. “Your Uncle Greg ended up wearing it quite a lot that night.”

“Who’s that with Uncle Sherlock?” Rosie queried. “Not his… _girlfriend_?”

Molly only needed to see a flash of lilac to know exactly who Rosie was looking at. She felt it was best to dodge the girlfriend question; there was a high chance that the truth might somewhat dent Sherlock’s reputation with his goddaughter. And it didn't exactly cover him in glory in Molly's eyes, either, even after all these years.

“She was your mum’s chief bridesmaid,” Molly told her, tactfully. “Janine.”

Rosie frowned.

“How come you weren’t a bridesmaid?”

Molly paused in her perusal of the photographs, trying to think back to those months after Sherlock’s return, the adjustments, and the building and rebuilding of relationships within their little trusted group.

“I didn’t actually know your mum that well when they were planning the wedding,” she told Rosie. “It was only really later, when she was pregnant with you, that we became really good friends.”

“And who are you with, Aunty Molly?” Rosie asked, holding out two photographs.

Molly glanced over.

“His name was Tom,” she replied.

The first photo, a casual shot, was taken by an old sundial in the grounds of the reception venue, her and Tom standing in the sunshine with Greg and Mrs Hudson. The second was taken indoors at the request of the photographer, and Molly remembered the moment well. Mary had sent her a copy of that photo not long after the wedding, assuming she’d think it was cute and would want it as a memento, but all Molly could see when she looked at it was the blurred outline of Sherlock in the background while she fawned rather unconvincingly over Tom.

“Was he your boyfriend before Uncle Sherlock?”

Molly knew she could probably just end it right there, but the full story was bound to come out sooner or later.

"Actually, Tom was my fiancé," she said, placing her hands on her knees. "We were engaged."

At this, Rosie's eyes visibly widened, and she looked at the photo again, perhaps for a glimpse of a ring.

"What? You never told me you were engaged to someone else! That's so weird!"

Molly couldn't help but laugh at this, but she supposed that Rosie probably had pretty fixed ideas about the adults in her life and their histories. Any challenge to this was bound to come as a shock.

"Why is it weird?" she queried. 

"It's just weird to think that you nearly got married to someone else," Rosie replied. 

"Not that 'nearly'," Molly told her, smiling.

In fact, John and Mary had got engaged, planned a wedding and then done the deed, while Molly was still wavering over the decision to rent out her flat. No prizes for guessing why.

"Yeah, but you  _agreed_  to marry someone else," Rosie persisted. "How come? I...I thought you said you loved Uncle Sherlock from the day you met him?"

There was something lovely about the fact that Rosie still thought about things in such definite terms, and with a child's idealism - it wouldn't last forever. Probably not the time to explain to Rosie the difference between the lust-at-first-sight that had taken hold of her that day in the morgue at Bart's and the fated fairytale narrative Rosie probably had in mind.

"Well, it was while Uncle Sherlock was away," Molly said. "You remember, he had to go away for a long while because of the danger he was in, and the work he had to do? Anyway, that's when I met Tom. It wasn't that I stopped having feelings for Uncle Sherlock, but I had no idea if he would ever come back - and even if he did, I didn't think he'd ever feel the way I felt about him. Tom was a nice man, really kind and caring, and I did love him."

In fact, if any of the children - hers or Rosie - met their own Tom, she was pretty sure they would have a happy life. Just so long as they didn't also have their own Sherlock lurking on the periphery.

"But you broke up with Tom because of Uncle Sherlock?"

Molly smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind Rosie's ear.

"Not directly because of him," she said. "But nobody should ever be made to feel like they were someone’s second choice, and Tom definitely didn’t deserve that. Does that make sense?”

Rosie nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

  
“I reckon you made the right choice, Aunty Molly,” she said eventually. “Uncle Sherlock is pretty weird, but he’s a good weird – and he definitely loves you.”

Molly laughed, stretching her arm around Rosie’s shoulder and pulling her in for a hug. They continued to look through the photos in the box, including some snaps from when Rosie was first brought home from the hospital (Sherlock sitting stiffly on the Watsons’ sofa beside Molly, suffering his way through a ‘Rosie-meets-her-godparents’ moment), and some formal poses from Rosie’s christening (Sherlock clearly glancing at his phone in almost all of them, even the one where he was being made to hold Rosie).

 “I asked Dad if he had any of Mum’s older pictures,” Rosie said, when they got to the end. “Like, from before she met him, and when she was little, but he said he’s never seen any. I was kind of hoping there might be baby photos or something, and I could see whether she looked like me.”

They were reaching the boundary of what Rosie knew, as they had many times before, but the difference now was Rosie’s understanding – she knew that something like a lack of childhood photographs wasn’t normal. 

“I think your mum kind of started again when she met your dad,” Molly said, trying to stay on the right side of the truth. “Sometimes people don’t like to look back or hold onto old things.”

It was only after Mary’s death, after she finally learned the truth from Sherlock, that Molly realised she had known nothing of her friend’s life before she became part of John’s. In the years since, John had remarked about how little Mary brought with her when they moved in together – just a few boxes and a couple of suitcases. Time to get rid of all the clutter, she’d said. And he hadn’t thought anything of it; after all, he was ex-army, used to travelling light. When Molly thought about it, she realised how good Mary had been at keeping things vague, sticking to generalisations, using humour to help her change the subject when conversations became too personal. She wished her friend hadn’t felt the need to do that with her, that Mary could have trusted her with her past as much as she trusted her with her baby daughter.

“Oh wait, there’s another photo in here,” Rosie said, scratching around at the bottom of the box. She slid a fingernail under the edge of the picture, which lay face-down, but when she turned it over, they both saw that it wasn’t a photograph. It was a postcard.

“Where’s Agra?” Rosie asked, wrinkling her nose.

Molly leaned over, touching her hand to the postcard to keep it in place. It was a vintage-style postcard, bearing a hand-drawn illustration of the Taj Mahal and the name AGRA in imposing capital letters; she felt the pace of her heart start to increase as she gently took it from Rosie. But it was completely blank – no writing, no stamp or postmark.

“It’s…a city in India,” Molly replied, distractedly.  

“Oh,” said Rosie, frowning. “Yeah, I recognise that building. Did my mum go there, do you think?”

“I…” – Molly realised they were straying into territory she had no business straying into – “She might have done…I don’t know.”

 “Hm, weird,” Rosie said with a shrug. “I’ll maybe ask Dad later, see if he knows.”

Molly realised that her gut reaction was to discourage Rosie in this action, borne out of the instinct to protect her goddaughter and to shield John. As far as Rosie knew, her mum had been a nurse, who also helped Sherlock and John when the opportunity arose. But Rosie had a right to ask questions, and she and Sherlock could only take their lead from John – he had to decide what his daughter could handle.

What already seemed clear to Molly from the very existence of this box, and the collation of the items in it, was that Mary had been preparing. Mary knew, even as she was putting it together, that it might end up not as a nice assortment of keepsakes to sift through with Rosie when she was older, but as a memento of her brief life as a wife and mother. But the inclusion of the postcard? It almost seemed as though she wanted to raise questions in her daughter's mind, wanted Rosie to prod and probe until she knew the truth. 

But the truth was for another day; Rosie's active teenage mind was apparently moving on to the next thing. She was nibbling another bit of banana bread, apparently taking a selfie while she did it.

“I’m sending this to Will,” she grinned, tapping away with her thumb. “So he knows I’m eating all the cake.”

Molly smiled to Rosie, and then again to herself; she was  _definitely_  going to have to mention this to Sherlock later on.

Seconds later, Rosie's phone chirruped with a response. Molly had to fight the desire to ask what her son had said in reply (as well as the desire to text Will herself, to tell him to put his phone away during lessons), but she accepted that when it came to Rosie and Will, there needed to be a bit of slack in the leash these days – so long as they were able to find their way back when they needed to. Hopefully, it would never be necessary to accept Uncle Mycroft’s covert offer of some ‘subtle phone surveillance’.

 “I think I might lie down again,” Rosie murmured, casting her phone onto the blanket and wriggling back underneath it. “Will you stay here, Aunty Molly?

“Of course, sweetheart,” Molly replied, patting Rosie’s leg. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Molly collected up the photographs, the hat, the socks, the clay print, and carefully placed them back where they came from; she slipped the postcard in amongst the photos and fitted the lid back onto the box. As she did so, a final puff of _Clair de_ _la_ _Lune_ diffused through the air in the living room, and she saw Rosie unconsciously wrinkle her nose in response.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remembered from Sherlock’s early deductions of Mary that she supposedly ‘bakes own bread’, so thought I’d use it here. Some of those other deductions would make interesting plot points, too…:-)


	14. Life Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When experiences in the present echo events of the past, Sherlock feels a pressing need to tell Rosie everything about Mary's death...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time it's taken me to get this chapter up - it has been rewritten more times than I care to think about! 
> 
> Despite the chapter summary, there's still a bit of lightness in with the angst :-)
> 
> Thank you again to geekmama who, as always, makes my writing better (and spots howling continuity errors!)

  
As soon as the cab had come to a standstill, Sherlock shoved a couple of notes through the partition window and jumped out; he glanced at his watch again – in a way, the timing couldn’t have been better. What had started out as a very promising day had taken a nosedive within five minutes of his arrival at the crime scene, but it was time to make lemonade with those lemons, or whatever the idiotic saying was.

It was almost two o’clock, which was perfect. Far enough into the day for Molly to have completed an adequate amount of work, but still leaving plenty of time before the house was once again overrun.

Sherlock quietly opened the door, determined that not even the dog would be alerted by his arrival. Slipping off his shoes and unwinding his scarf from his neck, he could hear the soft tapping of laptop keys, and the gentle thunk of a mug being set down on the table. As he tried to shrug out of his coat, one of the buttons must have struck the wall, and he quickly bundled up the stupid garment and silently placed it on the stairs.

It had been too long. He’d spent almost two weeks in a crofter’s cottage in a part of Scotland so solitary and inhospitable, and so far away from a decent 4G signal, that he could very easily understand why someone would suddenly go berserk and start killing hikers – especially if they were sharing a twenty-by-thirty-foot space with John Watson, complaining intermittently about his sciatica. On arriving home the evening before, Sherlock had been dismayed to discover that Molly had swapped shifts with someone-or-other (whose wife had had the audacity to go into labour early), though, in fairness, he hadn’t warned Molly he was on his way home. Fleeting, inadequate kisses were exchanged in the hallway, while Molly pulled on her coat and issued him hurried some instructions regarding food, homework, and the dog.

But now there was time for a proper homecoming.

Sherlock pushed open the living room door. There was a sudden rush of air, and Sherlock instinctively dodged to his right, at almost the exact same moment a loud crack echoed around the room. This was immediately followed by the sound of his wife swearing really quite loudly. He straightened up, quickly taking in the sight in front of him – Molly Holmes, all five-foot-three of her, brandishing in both hands what looked very much like their younger son’s cricket bat.

“It’s a little late in the year for cricket, isn’t it Molly?” he smirked, glancing quickly at the newly-wrought nick in the door-frame.

“You complete tit!” Molly replied, shoulders dropping as she recovered from the shock. “I could have broken your jaw!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows; he didn’t doubt it for a moment.

“Admittedly, not the greeting I was hoping for,” he told her, taking the bat from her hand and dropping it onto the sofa. “And if you were looking for a way out of our marriage, Molly, a text message would probably have been kinder.”

He wrapped his arms around Molly’s waist, pulling her firmly against him; she quirked a smile up at him, pulling back far enough to jab him lightly in the chest.

“I think we both know, Sherlock, that if  _that’s_  what I was trying to do, there wouldn’t be a shred of incriminating evidence whatsoever,” she told him, her hands trailing up his chest and coming to rest on his shoulders.

“I  _do_  know that,” he replied, leaning down until his lips were hovering just above hers. “And that is one of the things I adore most about you, Molly.”

Her fingertips danced at the back of his neck as he finally claimed the kiss on hold from the previous night; coming home was a truly remarkable thing. When they pulled away, Molly was looking at him with arched eyebrows.

“Did you know that arsenic poisonings became much less common in this country when laws where changed to make divorce easier?” she said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, allowing his hand to drift a little lower down Molly’s back.

“If that was intended as foreplay, Molly, you should know that it’s working.”

A look of slight puzzlement crossed her face, at the same time as a very pleasing blush. The fact that he could still do that to her after so many years had an immediate effect on Sherlock; the physiological equivalent of stepping up a gear.

“I thought you had another case? That’s what you said in your text,” Molly queried.

“Solved it while John was still trying to find somewhere at the crime scene to lock his bike,” Sherlock replied, releasing one hand so he could pop the button of his jacket. “So now we are presented with an opportunity it would be truly imbecilic to waste; _alone_ , Molly – nobody interrupting to complain that the wi-fi has gone down, inform us that the dog has been sick, or demand that one of us sign something or hand over money. We can make as much noise as we like – and I have every intention of us making some noise.”

He leaned in closer again.

“Bedroom – now.”

He got his wish. Hand-in-hand they scrambled up the stairs, revelling in the novelty of being able to cast aside items of clothing as they went, to snog like teenagers against the wall on the landing – to leave the bedroom door standing boldly, brazenly open. It was bloody brilliant. 

Kicking away the duvet from their half-made bed, Sherlock deposited Molly on the mattress and swiftly - and at fifty-four, he prided himself on still being pretty quick - covered her body with his. When they’d struggled free of the last, uncooperative items of clothing, Sherlock paused, allowing himself a moment to gaze at the face currently framed by his arms. Molly smiled up at him, her eyes locking onto his; a lovely pink flush was now blooming across her face and chest, and as her fingers reached around to caress the back of his neck, winding into his hair, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. Really, there was nothing that came even  _remotely_  close to this.

He felt Molly arch up to kiss him, which had the effect of centring him, bringing him back to the moment. Sherlock returned the kiss, slowly, reverently, determined to take his time – as, for once, time was what they had. His mouth traced a route from Molly’s lips, to her jaw, and he was starting a path down her neck when he heard a very unwelcome sound.

“My phone,” Molly murmured, her breath against his ear.

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, hoping that would be the end of it.

But thirty seconds or so later, it was still ringing.

“Maybe I should-”

“Molly, I forbid it,” Sherlock growled.

“What if it’s the hospital?” she replied in a whispered hiss, as though her employers could somehow hear her across London. “I’m supposed to be working.”

The phone cut off abruptly, and Sherlock redoubled his efforts, determined to put all thoughts of work from Molly’s mind. It lasted around another thirty seconds before the same ringtone echoed up from the living room.

“Sherlock, I really think-”

This time, the caller was less persistent, and the noise stopped before Sherlock had even managed to compose a reply. A quick nod from Molly confirmed they could continue, and with a smug sense of triumph, Sherlock nudged his way into the familiar cradle of her hips.

At which point, the sound of his own phone cut through the air like a fire alarm.

“Dammit-all-to-Hades!” Sherlock blurted, staring accusingly in the direction of the device, which was presumably in the pocket of his discarded jacket.

“You should at least see who it is,” Molly insisted. “What if it’s one of the children? Or something’s happened to one of your parents, or Martha?”

With a whine that he knew wasn’t befitting of a man of his age or stature, Sherlock rolled off the bed and looked around dumbly for a moment.

“Where the hell is it?”

“Probably wherever you chucked your jacket,” Molly told him. “Stairs?”

Running the naked gauntlet from the bedroom to the staircase, Sherlock finally found the abandoned puddle of clothing, fumbling around on the floor until his hand made contact with the offending device. It was still ringing, so he turned it over and squinted at the screen. It bore the words ‘Child Prison 1’.

“It’s the school,” he mumbled.

“Which one?”

“Will and Teddy’s,” he replied.

“Sherlock, answer it!” Molly urged, waving a hand at him. “They’re obviously trying to get hold of us!”

Sherlock had long ago learned the lesson that parental duty was the trump card that shrunk everything else to levels of insignificance (although, he groused inwardly, that didn’t mean he always had to like it). Pulling his jacket across his lap (because a naked conversation with one of his sons’ teachers felt unsavoury even to him), Sherlock cleared his throat and took the call.

 

000000000000

 

"So, is your nose actually broken?" Rosie was asking, peering more closely at William's face.

Sherlock was sure he saw his son straighten up a little under the scrutiny, turning to give Rosie a better angle from which to view his battle scars. Two hours earlier, Sherlock and Molly had collected William from the school office, having been confronted by the sight of their fourteen-year old son with a black eye and a blood-encrusted nose. At some point since the incident occurred - possibly even before his parents had been informed - Will had messaged Rosie a photo of his damaged face, and as a result she had taken a detour on her way home.

"Mum says there might be some cartilage damage," Will replied, with an air of wisdom and nonchalance. "But it barely even hurts."

Rosie shook her head and sniggered.

"God, you're such an idiot!" she said. “And I can’t believe you actually said those things to him, too.”

“They were all true,” Will replied, with an offhand shrug.

“Yeah, but no-one likes a show-off,” Rosie added, rolling her eyes. “Even at your school for swots.”

Will gave a sniff of laughter too, touching his fingers to the bridge of his nose with a wince, in direct contradiction to his assertion that it didn’t hurt.

“Teddy managed to pass the entrance exam,” he told her. “Which proves it is definitely _not_  a school for swots.”

Rosie gave Will a look which Sherlock assumed still passed for something like  _whatever_ , before hauling her bag onto the counter of the breakfast bar.

"Glad you're okay, though," Rosie added, nudging Will’s elbow. "And seeing as you’re not concussed or anything, you can help me with my chemistry revision - which I just  _happen_  to have brought with me."

Sherlock watched them from the kitchen, while Molly moved around him, organising dinner. Ever since he'd heard the full story, he'd been trying to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order, unable to shake the feeling that this was all leading somewhere.

“He shouldn’t have allowed it to go that far,” Sherlock said, watching Will looking over Rosie’s shoulder as she flicked through something on her phone.

“The other boy shouldn’t have  _hit_  him,” Molly replied, in a low whisper.

“But Will should have known that might happen,” Sherlock said, knowing he was unlikely to convert Molly with his argument.

Because the black eye and the cartilage damage wasn’t from a fist to the face – it was caused by Will’s face hitting the concrete as he was punched from behind. That was what was bothering Sherlock, the thing that Molly couldn’t see beyond the harm done to their son; William was perfectly able to defend himself against a sloppy punch – he held a brown belt in jujitsu for one thing -  but he simply hadn’t believed it would happen.  From what the school had told them, the violence only came  _after_  the initial confrontation, after he’d shown the older boy the evidence he was going to take to the head-teacher. No, the physical assault apparently took place once the incident had attracted a small crowd, when Will decided it would be a good idea to start revealing his deductions about the other boy: his father’s failing business, his back acne, his fear that girls would never fancy him. One second, Will had his back turned, all set to walk away; the next he had found himself sprawled face down on the playground.

As Sherlock had listened to the tale unfolding, he was aware of the rising tide of nausea that was threatening to overtake him. It wasn't simply that he was scared for his son, of what could have been - it was something that ran much deeper, taunting Sherlock to acknowledge it.

“I think he knows he did the right thing, just in the wrong way,” Molly said, leaning against the kitchen counter. She sighed, glancing across to Will, who was now flipping through Rosie’s GCSE chemistry textbook. “At least maybe he’ll learn a lesson from it.”

Sherlock swallowed.

  
“I hope so.”

Sherlock was about to make his excuses, go in search of Teddy and Bea, who had disappeared upstairs sometime earlier, squabbling over which one of them was going to be the Doctor and which the assistant, but Rosie was heading his way.

  
“Uncle Sherlock…you know that essay I wrote for my Media Studies coursework?” she said, a sudden note of shyness in her voice. “Well, I…I got an A*, so I just wanted to say thank you for helping me with it.”

Sherlock stalled for a moment, but cover was provided by Molly sweeping round the counter to embrace Rosie. He recovered, offering his congratulations as well.

“I can’t take any credit, Rosie,” he told her. “It was all your own work – I merely provided some sources of information.”

Rosie’s school assignment had been to examine the influence of the media on public opinion, and she had chosen to use Sherlock as her case study, comparing early news articles about his successes with the ones published immediately preceding his jump from the roof of Bart’s. The more she read, the more incensed she had become at his treatment twenty years earlier – but the more incensed Rosie became, the more uneasily it sat with Sherlock. In fact, he had experienced that same palpable nausea as he’d obediently read the final draft of her essay, taking in Rosie’s defence both of him and what motivated him. He feared that Rosie was just as much her father’s daughter as she was her mother’s.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?” he said quickly in response.

When he looked up, Molly was watching him, curiously; she hadn’t missed it, she never did.

“Are you…okay?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll, ah, I’ll take the dog out before we eat.”

 

0000000

 

He was very definitely, categorically  _not_  okay. That night brought the first in a terrifying, heart-clenching series of nightmares, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since the aftershocks of Sherrinford. He dreamt about William, felled by a gunshot and bleeding out on the ground; sometimes his son was horribly alone, sometimes Sherlock was there, his attempts at stemming the flow of blood somehow always making it worse. He dreamt about Mary, saw her falling, stood helpless as the colour drained from her face as she bled hopelessly in John’s arms; sometimes, it wasn’t Mary’s face he saw, but Rosie’s.

Sherlock jerked awake to find his t-shirt plastered to his sweat-soaked body. So far, he’d managed to avoid waking Molly; she slept more deeply these days, now that the need to be attuned to infant children had passed. In the weeks and months after Sherrinford, he might have pulled her to him, twined their bodies together, and allowed her to ease his anxiety and calm his mind in whatever way she was willing to give. But he didn’t want to scare her. Instead, for the fourth successive night, he pressed a feather-light kiss to Molly’s cheek, left the bed and made his way down the hallway.

It was ridiculous, but he needed to be reassured.

William was lying on his back, one hand behind his head, curls falling away from his forehead; in repose, Sherlock had noticed, he looked much more like Molly. But he was fine, safe. As he was up anyway, Sherlock thought he might as well check on the others – Teddy, flat out on his stomach with his new, shorter haircut that mimicked the way Sherlock wore his hair these days, and Bea curled up on her side with her duvet pulled up to her chin. It was absurd, but he had the urge to text John to ascertain that Rosie was also safe and secure, even momentarily picking up his phone from the bedside table.

This couldn’t go on.

He silently twisted out of his t-shirt, pausing for a moment, eyes closed, allowing the cool air to provide momentary relief. 

“Sherlock?”

Molly had twisted around in the sheets and was looking up at him, her face in the shadows except for a tiny slant of light from the doorway.

“I’m fine,” he whispered, pulling a new t-shirt out of the drawer. “Go back to sleep, Molly.”

She leaned closer to him, waiting until he was dressed again before reaching out to touch his forearm.

“C’mere,” she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his arm and tugging gently until he had no choice but to clamber clumsily back onto the bed. He lay down facing her and, once settled, Molly brought one hand to rest over his heart, the other moving to his forehead to push his hair out of his eyes, stroking his temple. With a shuddering sigh, he wrapped his arms loosely around her waist.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” she asked.

He closed his eyes; he really had no desire to talk about it, to poke the hornet’s nest, to make it  _her_  problem, but when it came to Molly, there really was nowhere to hide. No hiding place perhaps, but always the promise of safe harbour.

He swallowed thickly.

“I…I think I have to talk to Rosie.”

From what Sherlock could see of her face, it wasn’t what Molly was expecting to hear.

“Talk to her about what?”

“All of it, everything. It has to all be out in the open, once and for all,” he said. “No more secrets, no more lying by omission. I need Rosie to know exactly what happened to Mary, and I have to be the one to tell her.”

“Sherlock, Rosie  _knows_  what happened to Mary,” Molly said gently.

“The sanitised version, yes,” he replied. “The version we can all just about stomach. But it isn’t the whole truth, and Rosie has the right to that, to hold all of the facts in her hands. She needs to know…she needs to know what came before, the part I played. And if that changes the way she sees me, the way she feels about me, then…then I am willing to accept that.”

He felt Molly still in his arms, could almost hear her thought processes in the darkness.

“Is it because of Rosie’s essay?” she asked eventually. “What she wrote about you?”

“It was all predicated on a lie, Molly, everything she wrote,” Sherlock said, a sourness spiking the back of his throat just at the thought of it. “I’m not the man she thinks I am, and I can’t allow her to grow up in ignorance. Just look what that ignorance did to me? We’re not so different from my mother and father, Molly –  _they_  thought they were doing the right thing, too, the  _kindest_  thing, and though their intention was to protect me, instead it set me on a path from which it took thirty-five years for me to find my way back.”

He took a breath.

“And then, this week, with Will,” he continued. “Confronting this other boy, so certain he’s got the measure of him – certain enough that he starts provoking him, pushing him, despite the fact that he’d already achieved what he set out to do. Doesn’t even see the retaliation coming. Remind you of anyone you know, Molly?”

“Sherlock, it’s not the same thing as what happened with Mary,” Molly said, shaking her head softly. “It was a stupid schoolboy fight, and we’ll make sure Will learns from it. He might be bright, but he’s still only fourteen – he doesn’t fully understand all of the possible consequences to his actions. But as for Rosie, well…we need to think about those possible consequences, too.”

“I told you,” Sherlock replied. “I can’t use her good opinion of me as a reason not to tell her. It would then be up to her whether she can forgive me.”

Molly didn’t reply, the hand that had been soothing his side hesitating for a moment.

“You don’t agree with me,” Sherlock murmured.

“I…I know you think it would be helping Rosie, that it’s the right thing for her,” she said, carefully. “But I…I’m not so sure - at least not right now. Maybe that isn’t what she needs at this point. She’s…she’s happy - she’s doing well at school, her relationship with John seems really positive at the moment. And…and I know Rosie seems really grown-up a lot of the time, but she’s still only fifteen, and this is big stuff to deal with, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took in her words, suddenly picturing a twelve-year-old Molly Hooper trying to contend with the pain and arbitrary unfairness of her own mother’s death. 

“It’s not just that it might change how she feels about  _you_ ,” Molly continued. “It might change how she sees her mum. Because if we’re really telling her everything, then that means Rosie understanding that Mary made a choice to save you. And that…that could really affect her, particularly if Rosie sees it as Mary making a choice between you and her.”

 He felt Molly’s hand seek his beneath the covers.

“If…if you want to do this, Sherlock, I will support you, you know I will,” she whispered. “But I won't allow you to let Rosie think you're responsible. Sometimes I think you forget that in the middle of it all there was a woman with a gun, and whatever you might have said to her, and whatever decision Mary might have made in the moment, Vivian Norbury chose to fire that gun and  _she_  is responsible for Mary's death."

Sherlock sighed, tightening his hold around Molly's waist, bringing her body flush with his own so that he could feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest. He couldn't help but think about Magnussen, for whose death he accepted full and complete responsibility - he might have done it for Mary and John and their as-then unborn child, or he could argue that it was for the greater good of society, but he was still the reason that Charles Magnussen was in his grave.

“That’s what feels so unfair about all of this,” Molly whispered. “Because she’s in prison, but she’s still got this lingering…power over our lives, over you. And she doesn’t have the right; I hate that she can do that.”

He hadn’t thought about it like that. In truth, when he thought about it – when it surfaced in his nightmares – it was never about Norbury. It was always about him, about his fatal misjudgement; about Mary, John and Rosie. But Molly was right; even though Vivian Norbury likely knew nothing about his life since they crossed paths at the London Aquarium, she was still a spectral presence, still exerting an influence, still claiming a victory.

Sherlock looked down at his wife, at the quiet determination looking back at him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"It was a lot bloody easier when I didn't do feelings," he said, with a chuff of laughter.

Molly tilted her face to kiss his chin.

“Having feelings and acknowledging them are completely different things,” she replied, smiling. “And I’m pretty happy that you found a way to live with them; I’d say it’s worked out okay.”

How did she always do this? She could talk him down, turn him around, drag him back up to the surface, every single time.

“For me, certainly,” Sherlock replied. “Sometimes _you_ must question what you signed up for, Molly.”

He felt her fingers cruising lightly up his spine.

“Oh, I dunno,” she said. “Your arse is still just as gorgeous as it was the day you first burst into the morgue - that goes a surprisingly long way towards making things alright.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Thank you. And there I was thinking it was my brilliant mind and enigmatic demeanour that so captivated you.”

“Mm,” Molly said, airily. “A bit that, too.”

They were quiet for a few more moments, Sherlock breathing in the scent of Molly’s shampoo (and the ‘regenerating’ night cream she still bought despite the laughably unscientific claims). He realised that his limbs were beginning to feel heavy with fatigue again, and he slowly rolled onto his back, bringing Molly with him. She shifted until she was tucked neatly into his side.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t talk to Rosie,” Molly said, her voice humming across his chest. “But it…it would be wrong to just stumble into it – we can’t just pull the pin and run away. We have to be guided by John, and we – all of us – need to feel like we can answer Rosie’s questions, because she’s going to have a lot of them.”

Sherlock nodded, taking in the full weight of her words. She was asking him to dig deep, to hold on, to be the adult – and, if necessary, to endure that quiet pain for just a little longer, for their goddaughter’s sake. But not to endure it alone.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Molly whispered. “I think I should probably take Will for an x-ray in the morning, just in case.”

“Are you going to call in a favour?”

“No, definitely not,” Molly replied, so he could hear her smile in the darkness. “He might be wearing that black eye like a badge of honour, but I reckon a four-hour wait in A&E – without his phone - might make our wannabe consulting detective think twice about getting into fights.”

Sherlock chuckled, shifting so that he could spoon himself around Molly; quickly finding that position where they seemed to just click together like puzzle pieces. He inhaled deeply, and as he breathed out again, he recognised an opportunity.

“I’ll take him,” he told her. “We can fit a lot of life-lessons into four hours. And if we run out of those, it’s never too early to start learning about ash.”

_It was something_ , he thought, as Molly’s soft laughter melted into the night. And it might just be enough for now. 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 


	15. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie turns sixteen, and has a birthday celebration chez Holmes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fluff klaxon!*
> 
> Thought I would lay off the angst and guilt of the last couple of chapters and be kind to the cast of characters - well, mostly. Probably enough fluff here to cause hairballs! 
> 
> Thank you to geekmama for beta-ing again :-)

The suggestion that the children – any one of them – might like to help get things ready for the party seemed to have been misinterpreted. Molly had been thinking along the lines of setting the table, rounding up spare chairs, helping with the last of the food preparation, but they’d obviously decided that those things would probably happen anyway, without their help, and they would concentrate on other areas of the festivities.

Before Sherlock had gone out, he and Will had manoeuvred the table from the garden into dining room to help extend their eating area – there was a bit of a height inconsistency, but the tablecloth went some way to hiding the mismatch. Two additional chairs – and a piano stool - had been tracked down from bedrooms and the living room; none of them were ideal for sitting up at the table, though, and Molly was starting to wonder whether a buffet might have been easier.

She returned to the kitchen, quickly shooing the cat from the counter top, where he’d been nosing around the smoked salmon. Winston’s etiquette was still a slight improvement on that of her late, much-missed Toby, who would have just eaten the lot before he was spotted. Molly still thought of Winston as ‘the kitten’, even though he’d been with them more than two years now.

As she stood on tiptoes to reach the plates in the cupboard, she reflected that she did at least have a pleasant soundtrack to her work. In the corner of the adjoining dining room, Will had set up his sheet music and was practicing the piece he’d composed for the occasion. Molly put the plates down on the counter and silently leaned around the open door to catch a glimpse of her older son, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through the composition. Will had recently been appointed first violin in his youth orchestra, the youngest in its history; it didn’t seem five minutes since the music stand was down on its lowest setting and Will was treating them all to screeching renditions of  _The Muppets_  theme. Of course Molly was proud, but she knew Will’s achievements meant even more to Sherlock – not just because he and Will shared the same love (and talent), but because their son had the patience, even temper and commitment that had evaded Sherlock as a teenager.

“Which one did you bring – old or new?” Molly heard Teddy ask.

“New,” Bea replied. “The old one’s got a big hole in it – that was the whole reason Mum bought the new one.”

“Dad will hate the new one,” Teddy warned.

“He’s hates all games when he doesn’t win,” Bea retorted. “He’s even worse than you.”

“Ha ha,” said Teddy, flatly.

Molly came out of the kitchen to better understand what the discussion was about. Bea was almost hidden by the stack of board games in her arms, at the bottom of which was a still-wrapped  _Cluedo_  set, which she had indeed bought at Christmas. The old set had apparently spent several weeks attached to the living room wall at Baker Street by a dagger, and there were only so many times it could be fixed with Sellotape.  

“What else have you got, Bea?” Molly asked, taking some of the boxes off the top of the pile as her daughter teetered beneath them.

 “Um, Game of Life, Operation, Pictionary, Monopoly…”

“Not Monopoly!” Teddy groaned, throwing his head back. “Last time we all played, Nana Martha wouldn’t let any of us quit, even though it was obvious she had won and none of us cared anymore. It took _six hours_ –  _and_  I missed  _Doctor Who_.”

Molly smiled to herself; it was surprising, really, that Mrs Hudson had never expanded her property empire further.

Will set down his violin and bow.

“I don’t know why you’re getting games out at all,” he put in. “Rosie’s sixteen – she isn’t going to want to play board games on her birthday.”

“Why not?” Bea queried. “They’re fun.  _You_  like them.”

“I don’t,” Will replied.

Bea snorted.

“You definitely do,” she told him. “You loved it when you and Rosie were on the same Pictionary team, anyway.”

Molly stifled a smile at the sight of William blushing slightly; his sister never missed a trick, and for that Molly couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for him. 

“I didn’t  _love_  it,” he corrected her, scowling. “It’s just that we’re good at guessing each other’s drawings. Much better than playing with you, anyway – your drawing of the London Eye looked like a bloody clock having a fit.”

“Will!” Molly warned.

“What? Dad says it all the time,” Will replied, defensively.

“Yes…well…don’t say it to your sister,” Molly said, fumbling for a decent response. “ _Or_  your brother **,”** she added, knowing Will’s fondness for behavioural loopholes. “Or, actually, anyone.”

He rolled his eyes, at which point Molly went over to him and drew his curly head down towards hers so that she could kiss his temple (a growth spurt had finally delivered William the inevitable height advantage).

"That was beautiful playing, by the way, sweetheart," she told him, her voice just above a whisper (she knew he hated a fuss). She stopped short of telling him she was sure Rosie would like it; Molly wasn't sure she was supposed to know that it was Will's birthday present to her.  

"Thanks," he muttered, with a self-conscious smile. "It's just, you know...something I've been messing about with."

At that moment, they all heard a key in the front door, and as it opened, the sound of Sherlock being told off for something.

“For goodness sake, Sherlock, stop fussing!” Mrs Hudson was saying. “I can walk perfectly fine on my own. I’m not some helpless old lady, you know. How do you think I manage when you’re not there?”

“You have the boys from the café on speed-dial,” Sherlock replied. “Strongly indicating that you can play the helpless old lady when it suits you.”

“Oh, they’re happy to do it!” Mrs Hudson said airily, with a dismissive wave. “They’re very fond of my baking.”

“I’m certain they are,” Sherlock replied, catching Molly’s eye. She tried to suppress a smile; their children were all under strict instructions never to help themselves to Mrs Hudson’s brownies and cookies when visiting her Baker Street flat, just in case they contained certain ‘herbal’ additives.

“Hi Martha,” Molly said, giving her fellow godmother a gentle hug in greeting. She took Mrs Hudson’s bags to allow her to remove her coat, stepping over Mycroft-the-dog, who had ambled through to greet the recent arrivals (now that he was firmly middle-aged in dog terms, their beagle tended to amble more and more – Molly could empathise completely).

“Oh, isn’t this lovely?” Mrs Hudson declared, as her eye was caught by the display that had been created on the side of the staircase in the hallway. “Was this you, dear?”

“Um, yeah,” Molly told her, standing back to look at it again. “Well, John gave us a few extra photos, and Bea gave me a hand to stick it all up there. I hope Rosie likes it and doesn’t just think it’s embarrassing.”

She’d had the idea when she’d been helping Bea with her homework, when they’d been looking at a timeline in her history book. So now, decorating the wall was a pictorial timeline of Rosie’s life, with photographs from every year since she was born; Molly was hoping that Rosie would let her take the final one today, to add right at the end. If Rosie liked it, Molly thought she might offer to put all of the pictures in some kind of scrapbook. She had hesitated over whether to include photos of Rosie with Mary - she didn’t want to upset Rosie unnecessarily on her sixteenth birthday – but to not do so felt like she would be erasing her friend from history, and actually, Molly suspected that Rosie could handle a lot more than she was giving her credit for.

“Look at her!” Mrs Hudson smiled, peering closely at some of the early photographs.  “She was a gorgeous little thing. And look at you two-” - she pointed to one of the pictures taken at Rosie’s christening, adopting a chastising tone – “pretending like you weren’t absolutely silly about each other.”

“Speaking of silly,” Sherlock said, pointedly. “Probably time to get you a sherry or six, hm?”

Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a look to assure him that his exasperated tone hadn’t passed her by, but Molly noticed she didn’t turn down the offer of a drink. Medicinal at her age, she always said.  _Only if she’s intending to preserve herself in it_ , was Sherlock’s retort on the subject.

“Am I the first?” Mrs Hudson asked. “No birthday girl yet?”

“They’re on their way,” Molly replied, putting her arm around Bea, who had just drifted into the hallway to see what was going on. “And Greg texted to say that he’s running late.”

“Hmm, I have a wild theory,” Sherlock said, pursing his lips and narrowing eyes in a mock-deduction pose. “Something to do with his so-called ‘classic car’?”

“Think it might be, yes,” Molly said. Just before his retirement five years earlier, Greg had bought a little two-seater sports-car from a police auction; it was supposed to be a ‘little project’ for him to work on and he had enthused about all of the ‘spins’ in the countryside he would be able to take. As best as Molly could tell, however, the car had yet to make it outside of the M25.

“I’ll look forward to the excruciatingly-detailed update later,” Sherlock replied, herding Mrs Hudson towards the dining room.  

Molly hung back for a moment, double-checking that the living room door was properly closed before following them all through to the back of the house. Mrs Hudson had been installed in the old yellow chair Sherlock had bought for Molly when Baker Street was refurbished, Will was back at his violin (“I don’t think ‘Highway to Hell’ was really written for violin, Nana Martha”), and Teddy was trying to get the cat to perform somersaults again. Bea, Molly suspected, had probably gone to watch for Rosie and John from an upstairs window.

 This was soon confirmed by a cry of “They’re here!” from somewhere above their heads.

 “Should we all hide?” Teddy queried.

Will snorted as he set down his violin again.

“That would be weird, considering it’s not a surprise party,” he reminded his brother. “Although if  _you_  want to hide, we’ll come and find you in a couple of hours. Maybe.”

“At least that way I’d miss your violin recital,” Teddy retorted.

Molly opened her mouth to ask them to at least  _try_  to be civil, but Sherlock got there first, rounding up both boys so that he had an arm around each of their shoulders.

“Enough, reprobates!” he told them. “Or all you’ll be getting to eat is Myc’s leftovers.”

 Will and Teddy shrugged out of Sherlock’s hold and elbowed each other down the hallway. With a small, exasperated sigh, Sherlock slipped his arm around Molly’s waist as they followed their sons to the door.

Bea had got there first, and before she’d given the guests the chance to properly walk through the door, she was yelling “Happy birthday!”

 “Um, thanks!” Rosie replied politely, accepting a tight birthday embrace from an enthusiastic Beatrice Holmes.

“Did you see the balloons and the banner?” Bea asked.

“Yeah,” John replied, nodding a hello to Sherlock and Molly. “Pretty hard to miss them, really.”

Molly used the moment to step forward and give Rosie a hug of her own, whispering her birthday wishes in her goddaughter’s ear. Unlike William, Rosie, it seemed, had now reached her full adult height, and it was oddly comforting to know that future hugs between them would be like this one.

“I like your hair!” Bea trilled, reaching up to touch the soft waves into which Rosie had styled her usually-straight, casual bob.

“Oh, yeah, thank you,” Rosie replied, blushing a little at the sudden attention. “I’m going out a bit later, straight from here, so I kind of got half-ready.”

“Where are you going?” Bea asked. “Who with? Will there be boys going?”

“Wow, Bea, you’re doing my job for me,” John remarked. “Let me know if you get answers to any of those questions.”

“Beatrice, we weren’t planning for this birthday celebration to take place in the hallway,” Sherlock said. “Can we please allow Rosie inside?”

Molly saw Rosie flash Sherlock a grin, and as she moved to go into the dining room, he stopped his goddaughter long enough to plant a quick kiss on her head. Rosie gave him a quick little hug in return, the return currency of their affectionate exchanges these days.

Will and Teddy offered their ‘happy birthdays’, and the four children disappeared into the room, Rosie beckoned over by Mrs Hudson, proffering a gift bag.

“So…where  _is_  she going?” Molly asked, smiling slightly at John’s expense (she could afford to do it while she still had a few years to go - might as well enjoy it). “And how much is it costing you?”

“Actually, I feel like I’ve got off quite lightly,” he said, digging his hands into his pockets. “All I’ve had to do is hand over a hundred-quid Nando’s gift card and book some Ubers. And then just pray that she comes home, of course.”

“What’s  _Nando’s_?” Sherlock asked, emphasizing the word as though it was an exotic disease to be feared.

Molly smirked, squeezing him around the waist.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sighed. “I bet even Mycroft knows what Nando’s is.”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock scoffed. “Last Christmas, it took my brother twenty minutes to realise that Bea was not describing to him her life at her west London primary school, but that of Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“Probably not as weird as the school you and Mycroft went to,” John said with a sniff of laughter.

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, with a wince. “You have no idea.”

John paused by the wall bearing the photo gallery.

“Sorry, Molls, I’ve just noticed this,” he said, standing back to take in the full scope of the display. “It’s brilliant. God, it’s-” – he stopped, and Molly saw him swallow, then nod as he processed it all. “-it’s really, really…just great.”

He blinked, taking in a breath and puffing out his cheeks. Molly wasn’t sure whether it was the inclusion of Mary, or simply the sight of the sixteen years of his daughter’s life condensed into a three-metre space, but John was affected even more than she expected.

“Wow, there’s the hair I knew and loved,” John said with a short laugh, nodding to one of the earlier photos. “I mean, I still have the same amount, it’s just not much of it is on my head anymore.”

“Actually, Sherlock was saying something similar the other day,” Molly smirked, giving her husband a gentle elbow. He darted her a look that spoke of her betrayal. A few nights ago, he had stood, bare-chested, beside her at the bathroom sink, saying a eulogy for a last remaining brown hair on his chest. This was followed by a speech bemoaning the volume of nasal hair he had to contend with, and its apparent speedy growth, at the same time as his hairline was slowly retreating.

They decided they had abandoned Mrs Hudson to the children – or vice versa – for long enough and made their way into the dining room. As they entered, Rosie was bounding towards them. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and for a moment, Molly saw Mary standing in front of her – and wondered if Sherlock saw it too.

 “Did Dad tell you yet?” Rosie said, beaming. “He’s writing a book!”

Molly saw Sherlock shoot John a narrow-eyed, questioning look.

“What kind of… _book_?”

Molly immediately knew what kind of book, as she knew Sherlock did, too. For over ten years, John had been intermittently rebuffing offers from agents and publishers to bring out a collection of his blog pieces in book form. He’d always said he wasn’t interested, but Molly strongly suspected that wasn’t the real reason…

“Our adventures, mate!” John said, brightly. “Well, some of them.”

“So…fiction, then?” Sherlock replied, dryly.

“Ha ha,” John said. “Look, most doctors have retired by my age, bought a nice second home in Provence or Cornwall or somewhere, but for  _some reason_  my own savings account and pension pot aren’t looking quite so healthy. And have you seen the cost of university fees these days?”

“I try not to think about it,” replied Sherlock, grimly. “I’m encouraging our children to live by their wits instead.”

Molly shook her head at him.

“We can talk about it some other time,” John continued. “But it’s only fair if you get something out of it, Sherlock. We can work out some sort of split.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied quickly. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I happen to live with a very well-paid hospital consultant, so my future is secured.”

John gave a short laugh.

“Well, you can give the first draft a read when I’ve finished,” he said. “Give it the official seal of approval.”

Molly grimaced inwardly; that sounded like a recipe for disaster, but she wasn’t about to say so.

“I trust you, John,” Sherlock said with a nod. “It can be a nice surprise – if such a thing is possible.”

John was giving him a sideways look, as though highly suspicious that he was missing something.

“I told you Uncle Sherlock would be cool about it, Dad,” Rosie said, smiling.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied with a smile. “How could you ever doubt it?”

As soon as John and Rosie had drifted off to talk to the others, Molly leaned in to Sherlock.

“You really, really want to read that book first, don’t you?” she said, lips pinching together to contain her mirth.

“Oh God, of  _course_  I want to read it first!” Sherlock hissed, following her into the kitchen. “It’s going to be horribly populist, with science sacrificed for story at every turn – but if I ask to read it, it will look as though I don’t trust him. Or worse, that I actually care.”

Molly shook her head again, opening the fridge and taking out the last of the food for the table.

“Although, perhaps if  _you_  wanted to read it, Molly…” he suggested.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” she said, arching up on her toes to quickly kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “As soon as it hits the shops.”

“Mo-ll-eeee!” Sherlock pleaded, following her out to the dining room. But she was saved from formulating a suitable rebuttal by the spectacle of Teddy skidding into the dining room in his socked feet.

“Uncle Greg’s here!” he announced.

A second or two later, Greg entered the room, looking decidedly flustered and still trying to recover his breath. He waved a general hello to them all, before crossing the room to Rosie and offering her both a cheek-kiss and a sparkly gift bag.

“God, I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said finally.

“Surely not your car?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow arched. Molly elbowed him in the ribs

“Yeah, as it ‘appens. Bloody thing wouldn’t start and I ‘ad to leg it up to the main road to get a cab,” Greg replied, eyeing Sherlock as though detecting that he was being mocked.

“You should cut your losses and sell it for scrap, mate,” John said, shaking his head.

“Hey, that car is a bona fide classic,” Greg said, said firmly. “Besides,” he added, with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Women seem to love it.”

Sherlock snorted.

“What, they love sitting in it outside your flat?”

“Yeah, well, I’ll let that go,” Greg replied, fixing Sherlock with a look. “But only ‘cos I’m ‘oping you’ll let me borrow Teddy next weekend to come and ‘ave a look at ‘er with me.”

Teddy did have, it seemed, a natural aptitude for figuring out how things worked, and an instinct for fixing them when they didn’t. From laptops to hairdryers, and from toasters to remote-control toys, there was very little that Teddy hadn’t taken to pieces and reassembled – mostly with permission, and usually with a positive result. He’d already stripped and rebuilt the engine on Greg’s car once, with a little help from YouTube.

Molly left them all in conversation while she went to check on the food warming through in the oven. When Sherlock followed her, she expected him to revive his campaign to get her to vet John’s book.

“What are we doing about seating arrangements?” he asked, his eyes watching their guests in the next room.

Molly shrugged.

“I dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it,” she told him. “Maybe Rosie at one end, and then everyone else wherever they like?” She watched his face, noting the slightly twitchy expression. “Or…something else if you think it’ll work better?”

She really should have known he would have a plan.

“Well, we can’t sit Will next to Mrs Hudson again,” he started. “It doesn’t seem fair; he still hasn’t recovered from your fiftieth, when she spent the entire main course regaling him with stories from her exotic dancing days. In fairness, I think she might have thought that he was me – not that it makes it all that much better. Also, I’d rather avoid sitting next to John – because of the whole book thing – and Greg, too, because there’s a genuine risk that I might fall into a catatonic stupour if I have to hear another word about that car.”

Molly rolled her eyes.

“Well, you’re not sitting in the kitchen with the dog, so you can – I don’t know – sit between Rosie and Bea,” she said. “But yeah, I agree that we need to keep Martha away from Will.”

They all waited for a few minutes while Rosie unwrapped her presents before assembling at the table and lunch being served; a sort of serve-yourself sit-down meal. Rosie duly – although slightly bashfully – took her place at the head of the table, with Sherlock and Molly on either side of her. Helium balloons in the shape of a one and a six had been strung to her chair, and Bea had (to Sherlock’s dismay) scattered the tablecloth with birthday confetti.

“Thanks so much for the theatre tickets, Aunt Molly,” Rosie said to Molly, between mouthfuls. “I’ve wanted to see that for ages, and those are amazing seats.”

Molly had bought three tickets, when Bea pleaded to be allowed to come along as well.

“We’ll have a nice lunch beforehand,” Molly told her. “Your choice.”

At this, there was a chorus of whining from the teenage male contingent at the table.

“ _You_  two didn’t want to come,” Molly reminded them. “I won’t repeat what you both said when I asked you.”

Will sighed, giving her that Exasperated Adolescent stare.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell us there’d be lunch, so we weren’t able to weigh the facts and make a fully informed decision.”

“Important lesson learned, William,” Sherlock said. “Always ascertain the full facts; don’t expect them to be handed them to you.  Especially if they’re liable to cost your mother an additional fifty pounds in restaurant food.”

Greg asked Rosie what John had bought her, at which point her face broke into an excited smile.

“Dad’s taking me on the Eurostar to Paris,” she grinned. “Two nights. I can’t wait!”

Molly looked over at John, who was looking quietly pleased with himself. She knew he was already looking into the not-too-distant future, when Rosie would have an independent life of her own and was hungry to spend as much time with his daughter as possible.

“We’re going to the Louvre and the Catacombs, and I  _really_  want to visit Belleville and Montmartre and loads of other cool areas,” Rosie continued, gesturing with her fork.

“It’s going to be action-packed, that’s for sure,” John replied, making a show of sounding tired at the very thought of trailing a wired teenager around a strange city – but his eyes told a different story.

“Oh, Paris!” Mrs Hudson declared. “Don’t get me started on Paris!”

“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock put in quickly. “Pass the potatoes, would you please, Bea?”

But it was patently too late.

“We had some times there, goodness me!” Mrs Hudson continued, undeterred. “Me and the girls I’d become friendly with at the 100 Club, over there for a whole fortnight one summer. All I can say is that the ladies of the Moulin Rouge had nothing on us!”

“Did they have anything on at all, Martha?” Greg queried, chuckling.

“Thank you, Greg,” Sherlock interjected, looking slightly queasy. “Therapy is quite expensive, and if this continues much longer, we’re all going to require some.”

 “Oh, shush!” Mrs Hudson told him, aiming an admonishing stare in his direction. “You would have fainted dead away before you’d even sat down, Sherlock Holmes!”

“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock replied grimly.

Molly felt for his calf under the table with her toe, and when his eyes snapped up at her in response, she gave him a supportive little smile that only he would see. He gave a tiny eye-roll in reply.

“Sixteen!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, looking over at Rosie fondly. “A friend of mine got married at sixteen, you know – straight from school. Mind, she had to really, if you know what I mean. Have you got a young man these days, dear? Or young woman? I got that wrong with your father, of course, so I try to keep an open mind.”

The gallery of faces surrounding Molly made for quite a scene. Sherlock’s eyes were raised to the ceiling in exasperation, John was giving Mrs Hudson a tight smile, and three out of four children just looked slightly confused (Bea had missed the insinuation but was using the moment to snag the last sausage from the serving dish).  

“I…erm…no, Nana Martha, I don’t have a boyfriend,” Rosie said eventually, blushing slightly. “I’m pretty busy with everything at school and, well, it’s just not something I’m that bothered about at the moment.”

Molly could have hugged Rosie both for her diplomacy and her maturity; she could still recall the horror and discomfort of that enquiry from her own teenage years. Out of the corner of her eye, she could also see John looking visibly relieved.

“Very sensible,” Mrs Hudson said, sagely. “Plenty of time for that sort of thing later – and most of them are little more than a nuisance, anyway. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Glad you added that, Hudders,” Sherlock told her. “Because for a moment you were going to be making your own way back to Baker Street tonight.”

Mrs Hudson waved him away.

“Between you and me,” she said to Rosie in a stage whisper. “That one over there is going to be a very handsome young man in a few years’ time – and his mother has taught him some manners, too, which means he won’t be a rude, uppity little so-and-so like his father.”

Once again, the spectrum of expressions was a sight to behold. Teddy was smirking, Greg was wincing in sympathy, Sherlock was staring daggers at his former landlady (either for the ‘uppity little so-and-so’ comment, the embarrassment of his son and goddaughter, or possibly both), and John’s head was in his hands. Poor Rosie, desperate to remain polite, clearly had no idea what to say – and as for the ‘young man’ in question, William had turned a very vivid shade of puce beneath his curls, and had slid noticeably lower in his chair; he was staring at the tablecloth so intently Molly thought it might actually catch fire. Despite his outward show of confidence, and his intellectual prowess, Will was as self-conscious and awkward as every other fourteen-year-old – and despite his gangling limbs and his deepening voice, he was still her baby. Molly loved Mrs Hudson dearly, but her lack of tact was getting worse with each passing year.

“You’re not too old for board games, are you, Rosie?” Molly asked quickly.

Rosie blinked in surprise, but then caught on to the lifeline she was being thrown.

“No, definitely not,” she replied. “That’d be great.”

Molly recognised the implied thanks in her goddaughter’s tone.

“Teddy and Bea have dug out a good selection,” Molly went on, giving Rosie a look she hoped conveyed  _don’t mention it_. “Let’s have some cake and then you can choose what we play.”

William recovered sufficiently to provide a violin accompaniment to the singing of ‘Happy Birthday’, and Rosie gamely blew out the candles. Plates had hardly been cleared away when Bea plonked the Cluedo box down on the table in front of them all.

“What’s this?” Sherlock queried, peering at the box.

“I bag Dr Orchid!” Bea crowed, taking the lid from the box.

“Who?!” Sherlock, John and Greg asked simultaneously.

“Updated version,” Molly explained, helping Bea to unpack the box and unfold the board. “Professor Plum and Reverend Green are surprisingly hot these days, too.”

Sherlock picked up the box lid between thumb and forefinger, examining it as though it was covered in bile.

“At least Colonel Mustard still looks like my Uncle Rudy,” he said, wrinkling his nose in mild distaste.

All four of the children selected/bagged their characters, leaving Molly with the fifth piece and a sixth left over. Mrs Hudson counted herself out, declaring that she would adjudicate instead, leaving Greg to pair up with Bea, and Sherlock and John to reluctantly team up as the sixth player.

“Right then,” Greg said, rubbing his hands together and grinning at Sherlock and John . “I can feel a wager coming on, boys.”

“Really, Greg?” said John. “You want to introduce gambling at my daughter’s sixteenth birthday party?”

“Alright,” Greg replied. “Let’s just play for the last bit of cake, then.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, setting his yellow playing piece down heavily on the board. “Given that you’ve put on six pounds since I last saw you, I’ll be doing you a kindness by beating you.”

“ _We_ , Sherlock,” John reminded him. “ _We_  will be doing him a kindness by beating him.”

“Sorry - I misspoke,” Sherlock said quickly. He turned to his left to place a quick kiss in Bea’s hair. “Beatrice, my apologies in advance for the upcoming trouncing – you can share the winnings with John and me.”

What followed was the most ridiculously competitive game of Cluedo that Molly had ever had the misfortune to partake in, involving flagrant cheating from Greg, shameless peacocking from Sherlock and a bickering commentary from Will and Teddy. She noticed that Mrs Hudson renounced her refereeing role after only a few minutes, choosing instead to enjoy another glass of sherry and survey the carnage.

But it was fun, and there was a smile on Rosie’s face, which was ultimately what mattered – that, and the fact that Molly emerged victorious, gleefully claiming the cake and splitting it with Rosie. As she started to eat it, Sherlock lunged over and kissed her firmly, making her squeal and causing her to drop her fork. When he sat back, he was licking his bottom lip.

“At least I get to taste the victory,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Greg. “And the cake.”

Molly shoved him lightly – she’d get him for that later.  

Catching sight of the time, Rosie excused herself to go and get changed. As Greg, John, and Mrs Hudson poured themselves another drink, Sherlock rounded up their three children to clear the plates and do the dishes. (Once Bea was big enough to reach the sink, Sherlock had realised that he effectively had a dish-washing team and could take a step back into a more 'managerial' role.)

Molly caught Will on his way into the kitchen.

"You didn't play your piece for Rosie," she said gently. 

Will swallowed, glancing off towards the window.

"There wasn't really a good time," he mumbled. "Anyway, it isn't  _for_  her. It's just something I'm working on."

"Okay," Molly replied, kissing his cheek. "But I still think she'd like to hear it. Maybe you could send it to her?"

He made a non-committal noise before sloping off after his siblings. When Will disappeared into the kitchen, the cat emerged from his hiding place, immediately angling to be let out of the front door. As Molly closed the door after him, she heard Rosie coming down the stairs behind her. Turning, she was confronted by that same, heart-stopping flash of familial resemblance; fine traces of Mary in Rosie’s smile, her big, blue eyes, her posture. She was dressed in smart, skinny jeans, a floaty, floral-patterned top with short sleeves, and coral-coloured kitten heels. Not for the first time, Molly wished that YouTube had been around when  _she_  was sixteen – her own attempts at make-up had usually been terrible.

 “You look lovely, sweetheart,” Molly smiled.

“Thanks,” Rosie smiled. “It’s just going out for food so, you know, nothing big.”

“Will you let me take a photo of you to add to the gallery?” Molly ventured.

Rosie rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, go on then,” she replied. “Let me get Dad.”

Molly hadn’t necessarily expected that John would be in the photo, too, but when she looked again at the rest of display, it made perfect sense. After John had offered his own admiration for how Rosie looked, father and daughter stood by the front door, very nearly the same height, and posed for the camera. She would print it off later, add it to the collection for Rosie.

“Rosie’s leaving soon!” Molly called towards the back of the house.

A few seconds later, all three Holmes children tumbled into the hallway. As they all came to a stop, facing Rosie and John, Molly saw it immediately, but tried not to react – Bea, however, was less subtle.

“Will, what’s wrong with your face?” she asked, screwing up her own face in confusion.

“What? Nothing. Shut up,” Will replied quickly.

Molly caught Sherlock’s eye as she came to stand behind the children, but he didn’t seem to have seen what she had seen, didn’t seem to have picked up on the implications. Poor Will. Molly had had an inkling, a tiny ember of suspicion, for a few months, but her son’s reaction to the sight of Rosie dressed as she was, was pretty definite confirmation. God, being fourteen was brutal.

The children exchanged goodbyes (red-faced ones in Will’s case), and Rosie picked up her biker jacket, ready to leave. Molly saw Sherlock exchange a look with John, before stepping towards his goddaughter.

“Ah…Rosie,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “You might have noticed that I have not been forthcoming with a gift thus far, and while it is true to say that presents are not, generally-speaking my area, there  _is_  something that I would like you to have. Although, when I say ‘have’, it’s not a particularly practical option for you to take with you tonight, but…well, it’s in here.”

He opened the door to the living room and gestured her inside. Molly followed them both in and felt John hovering just behind her; during the frenzy of the afternoon, she had almost forgotten about this. In the middle of the living room was a large armchair with high arms and a slightly sloped back; the fabric with which it was upholstered resembled a vintage map.

“This…this isn’t for  _me_?” Rosie asked, turning to Sherlock.

He nodded his confirmation.

“Because your mother named you Rose of the World,” he said. “And I know you’re going to go out and see a lot of it, but until then, I hope this will serve as a modest empire for you.”

“But…” – she paused, tilting her head and staring at the piece of furniture for a long moment - “hang on…is this Dad’s old chair?”

She looked as though she could hardly take it in, and Molly could tell that this was the exact reaction that Sherlock had been hoping to inspire.

“We brought it home from Baker Street a while ago,” he replied. “I…I remembered how much you liked to sit there when you were very small, sometimes even go to sleep in it. But I thought it could do with a new look for a new generation of Watsons. I…I hope it’s okay?”

Rosie turned around and beamed at him.

“Uncle Sherlock, it’s absolutely beautiful!” she said. “I…it’s amazing. Is this really for me?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Well, it’s no good to your father any longer,” he said. “Not enough lumbar support. I suppose old age will come to all of us one day.”

“Git,” John said, shaking his head. “You can’t just do something nice, can you?”

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued. “I can have it delivered to your flat, or you’re welcome to keep it right here in our living room – it’s entirely up to you. You can take some time to think about it, though – although not too long, as I expect the cat will eventually claim squatter’s rights.”

Rosie laughed, and she stepped forward to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into a hug. When she stepped back, Molly could see both surprise and satisfaction written all over Sherlock’s face.

“It’s amazing, Uncle Sherlock,” she said. “Thank you so much. It’s going to go everywhere with me.”

“Although not in the cab,” John said, looking at his phone. “Which is apparently just around the corner. I'll go and flag it down - you'd better grab your stuff, Rosie.”

 As Rosie was pulling on her jacket and picking up her bag, Molly could see Sherlock hovering, vacillating. In a moment, she would be gone and so would his chance, and Molly knew there was more he wanted to say. She crossed the room quietly and touched her fingers to the small of his back; Sherlock glanced down at her for a second, then took a breath.

“One other thing,” he said, committing himself.

Rosie turned back to face him, waiting.

“There are very few people, Rosie, whom I have encountered in my life who have made an indelible mark on it, have left me profoundly changed,” Sherlock continued. “Your mother and father are two of those people, and your Aunt Molly is, of course, another. But it is my sincere belief, Rosie, that without you, I wouldn’t have any of this; Will, Teddy and Bea wouldn’t exist, Molly would be married to some much more deserving man – if I was lucky, I might have the dog…although it wouldn’t be named after my brother.”

Rosie smiled, her brow slightly furrowed, and Sherlock allowed himself a moment’s pause.

“When you were born, when your parents had the ridiculous notion that I should be your godfather, you…you forced me to look at myself, just to see what you would see. And you helped me to locate resources and abilities within myself that I would never have believed were there. If it wasn’t for you, Rosie, I might never have found the courage to love your Aunt Molly, and I certainly would never have been brave enough to become a father.”

Molly could see that Rosie didn’t know quite how to react, but she was clearly moved, in a slightly self-conscious, teenage way. She was biting her bottom lip through her smile, blinking.

“Oh, now you’re going to make me cry and wreck my make-up,” she told him, with a hiccupping laugh. She allowed Sherlock to enfold her in a gentle hug, before making room and beckoning Molly over to join them.

“It’s the truth,” Sherlock murmured. “Now, you must go and enjoy your Mozambican-Portuguese-inspired casual-dining restaurant chain experience.”

Rosie sniggered.

“Did you just Google Nando’s, Uncle Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he told her, smiling. “Have a good evening - but when you’re considering where the night may lead, it’s worth remembering that Mycroft has eyes on literally every corner of London.”

They said their goodbyes, and John returned to the living room to walk Rosie to her cab. Molly swiped at the corner of her eye with her thumb; she hadn’t even been aware that she was crying.

“Molly, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asked. 

When she looked up, she almost laughed at the genuine concern marking her face.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “It's just that I was quite keen on you to start with, but I think it’s possible that I love you a tiny bit more now.”

He pursed his lips in thought, one eyebrow raised.

“Enough to read John’s book for me?”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

“Nah, not that much,” she grinned. “You’re gonna have to earn that.”

“Challenge accepted, Molly,” Sherlock said. “But right now, we have to go and prise a bottle of sherry from a ninety-four-year-old reveller, and then chase a retired detective off our property. That's how every good sixteenth birthday party ends, isn't it?"

Molly smiled, leaning against Sherlock’s side as the tiredness began to swim through her. Upstairs, she could hear Will at his violin again, and she wondered whether Rosie might receive her final birthday present before the end of the night after all. She felt Sherlock kiss the top of her head, and hand in hand they walked through the house to the others. 

 


	16. Provocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to geekmama for editing, sense-checking, and correcting my use of 'might'/'may' for about the 80th time! (I promise this will stick one day!)

  
“Dad, you  _definitely_  said something to that girl,” Bea said, taking a swig from her water bottle. “I couldn’t get past her at all during the first half, and then she just seemed to go all…weird.”

Sherlock’s mouth was pulled into a tight line to prevent a smile from breaking through.

“It was merely that your superior skills and your admirable tenacity eventually gained you the psychological advantage,” he told his daughter, slowing slightly to let Bea catch up. The studs of her boots on the pavement made a pleasing clacking sound, as they walked towards the house.

“Come on, what did you say?” Bea persisted, clearly not convinced in the slightest. “It was like she suddenly couldn’t concentrate - or she was distracted by something.”

“It was a deserved victory,” Sherlock told her, attempting to evade the question again. “And, as always, I am immensely proud.”

As they arrived at the garden gate, he dropped a kiss onto Bea’s head. She looked up at him with narrowed eyes and a sceptical frown, her face streaked with mud. Alright, so he  _might_  have mentioned in passing to the child in question that her teammate in the number seven shirt thought she had a strange running style and was prone to imitating it when she wasn’t looking. And that revelation  _might_  have had a somewhat distracting effect on her. Possibly. But given that the girl was freakishly big for a ten-year old and was almost certainly on the pitch under false pretences, really all he was doing, Sherlock reflected, was levelling the so-called playing field.

Considering that football was, by its very nature, imbecilic, and those who enjoyed it little more than brain-dead, knuckle-scraping apes, it was strangely disconcerting the extent to which he had become drawn in by Bea’s Saturday morning sports fixtures. For one thing, who knew that ten-year-old girls were so impressively vicious? At first it had been alarming, but it soon became clear that Bea – although slight in build, like Molly – could hold her own. Perhaps he had become a little  _too_  drawn into it, however; since the season started, Sherlock had been banned from the touchline twice by the referee, been chased around the perimeter of the pitch by a father from an opposing team and had been issued with a warning for berating a fourteen-year-old linesman.

“We’re home!” Bea announced, as she pulled off her boots and kicked them into the corner of the porch.

A moment later, Molly appeared in the hallway, a pen inserted into the bun at the back of head in a way that Sherlock couldn’t help but find adorable. Like him, Molly now wore glasses for close-up work – one of the pleasures of growing old together would be, it seemed, taking amusement from each other’s increasingly erratic eyesight. Sherlock loved how Molly looked in glasses, though; it gave her a smart, mature beauty that suited her completely at this point in their lives. Although he had no idea where it came from, he also found it breathtakingly sexy, a reaction he would need to tamp down at this particular moment.

“How’d it go?” she asked, holding out a hand to receive Bea’s kit bag.

“We won,” Bea beamed. “I scored one of the goals.”

Molly offered her a congratulatory hug, pulling back to brush her thumb over the mud on Bea’s cheek.

“I’m starving!” Bea declared, pulling off her long **,** snake-like football socks. “Is it lunch soon?”

“In a bit,” Molly told her. “I’m just finishing up some work. You could make yourself a snack if you really can’t wait – just nothing too big. Rosie’s here, by the way.” 

On saying this, Sherlock saw her eyes flick to him for a moment, perhaps slightly subconsciously. There was something more going on, or at least Molly thought there was and couldn’t yet say so.

  
“Rosie’s here?” Bea replied, excitedly. “Why didn’t you say so, Mum?”

“Um, I just did,” Molly replied, with an amused smile. “She’s in the kitchen with the boys if you want to go and say hello.”

When their daughter had scooted off to find more interesting company, he and Molly met each other at the halfway point of the hall. He dipped his head to meet her raised one, and they shared a brief, warm kiss.

“Did you behave?” she asked him with a grin, when she set herself back on her feet.

“My conduct and comportment were beyond reproach, Molly,” he replied.

“Good,” she said, folding her arms. “Because those conversations with Bea’s PE teacher were getting really embarrassing.”

Sherlock hung his coat on the stand, making space alongside Rosie’s beloved biker jacket.

“What brings Rosie over?” he asked, turning back to Molly. “We weren’t expecting her, were we?”

Molly moved towards him again, gave a little shrug.

“She sent a text just after you left,” she replied. “Asked if it was okay. She didn’t say why, although John’s got that book thing all day, remember?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh yes,” he said, a slightly acrid taste suddenly forming at the very thought of it. “The book thing.”

Incredibly, the book thing had actually happened; there was now, in black and white, and in bookshop displays around the country, a published account of the early cases on which John had accompanied him. Although he’d told John he had no need of reading a first draft, Sherlock hadn’t fought it too vehemently when John insisted. The publisher wanted notes, John said, was interested in Sherlock’s ‘take’ on things. Sherlock had duly set out to read it, quickly sending them a detailed, annotated critique of John’s prologue and the case his friend still tiresomely insisted on calling ‘A Study in Pink’. He’d received a brief, polite reply in response – but John’s own reaction was somewhat less brief and certainly less polite; something along the lines of “For God’s sake, Sherlock, they meant a few notes and observations, not a complete rewrite in forensic detail!”. John had also gone on to suggest that if Sherlock wanted to collate his monographs about ash, soil, man-made fibres and dog hair, he was welcome to try and get his own book deal. Only he put it slightly less politely.

Anyway, somehow the book had come into being, and it had surpassed even the publisher’s expectations. Molly had attended the launch with Rosie, but Sherlock had politely declined; he knew his presence was likely to be a distraction, and whatever he might think of John’s interpretation of their time together, it was John’s book, his moment. Subsequently, though, John had had a lot of those moments, and if Sherlock remembered correctly, today involved back-to-back signings at bookshops across central London.

“She might just want some company,” Molly continued. “Although…I don’t know…”

“What?” Sherlock queried, gently.

“I think maybe there’s something else?” she replied, hesitantly. “Maybe not, I don’t know. Teenagers can be pretty hard to read sometimes.”

She wasn’t wrong there; thank God he’d never conducted an investigation that hinged on his ability to deduce a teenager – all of those mercurial hormones, and the apparently unending emotional dramas of adolescence made it almost impossible to get an accurate read on them.

“Not that boy?” Sherlock frowned, the idea suddenly occurring to him.

At some point during the past few months, Rosie seemed to have grown a not-entirely-desirable appendage in the form of a regular male companion (nobody was permitted to use the ‘b’ word in front of John).

“Martin?” he hazarded.

Molly shook her head.

“Mark?”

Still wrong.

“Max? Matthew?”

“Close,” Molly smiled. “Mat. With one ‘t’.”

Amazing how he could have forgotten that particular ludicrous sobriquet. But then, the boy in question wasn’t particularly memorable; in fact, Sherlock highly doubted that Mat-with-one-t, stubbornly bland and innocuous as he was, was capable of being the cause of any disquiet that Rosie might be experiencing. He seemed to be the adolescent male equivalent of wallpaper – just with a slightly ridiculous haircut.

“Could be,” Molly shrugged again. “I suppose she’ll say something if she wants to. Maybe she wanted to come over here for a distraction.”

“Can’t imagine why she’d think to come here for that,” Sherlock said, with one eyebrow raised. Molly smiled at him over her shoulder as they made their way into the dining room.

Sherlock’s sons glanced up from what they were both looking at, probably just checking that he hadn’t grown a second head or painted himself green since they last saw him. Rosie looked up, too, giving him a smile in greeting; Molly was right, though, there was something behind her eyes.

“Good morning, Rosie,” Sherlock said with a nod. “This is a nice surprise. Can I offer you some tea?”

She wordlessly held up her mug, demonstrating that she had already been well-served by her godmother.

“Rosie is trying to choose universities to apply to,” Molly said, pausing at the kitchen door. “But she’s not getting very far.”

“There are too many considerations,” Rosie sighed. “I might love the course but hate the place or love the place but be totally bored by the subject – or I could end up too far away, or so close to home that I feel like I’ve barely gone anywhere. I don’t even want to think about it anymore today.”

“I’m not going to university,” Bea announced, between mouthfuls of gingersnap biscuit.

“Well, you’re not having the cash equivalent, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Sherlock told her. Though, come to think of it, he wished  _he’d_  thought of that when he was a teenager.

“It would be pointless,” Bea continued. “I’m going to be an explorer.”

At this, Teddy snorted tea all over his textbook.

“You? You got lost in the Science Museum last week, and you’ve been there about eighty times -  _and_  there are maps on  _literally_  every wall.”

Bea set her jaw, before landing a direct hit with a football sock to Teddy’s face.

“Any possibility of the two of you shutting up for five minutes?” Will said, irritably. “Some of us have exams coming up this week.”

“Oh, really, have you?” Teddy said. “Because I don’t think you’ve mentioned it for at least half an hour.”

With Sherlock and Molly’s agreement, the school had entered Will for the majority of his GCSE exams a year early; it was pointless, they said, for him to make him spin his wheels for another year if he was already beyond the required standard.

“What subject have you got first?” Rosie asked, leaning into Will’s space to look at the practice paper he was working through.

“Chemistry,” he replied.

“You’ll breeze it,” Rosie replied, rolling her eyes. “In fact, they’ll probably ask you to write the exam questions for next year.”

She tapped her finger on the sheet of paper in front of him.

“You know, maybe after exams are over you could give Mat a hand,” she said. “He’s kind of struggling.”

Sherlock recognised the look of superiority that immediately sprang up on his older son’s face.

“He only had to choose four subjects for A level,” Will replied, slightly pompously. “Couldn’t he have found four he was actually good at?”

It was eerie how closely Will’s response echoed Sherlock’s exact thoughts.

Rosie picked up a pencil and poked Will in the top of his arm.

“He  _was_  good at GCSE chemistry,” she told him. “But A level is a serious step up. And remember, not everyone is a genius like you.”

“Not everyone is such a gigantic nerd, you mean,” Teddy put in.

Will gave a chuff of sarcastic laughter.

“Well, a least Mum doesn’t still choose  _my_  clothes,” he challenged.

“Well, at least  _I_  don’t still sleep with a teddy bear.”

“It’s  _not_  a teddy bear,” William retorted, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s a genuine, uniquely-numbered Steiff collectable, and it was a present from Uncle Mycroft when I was born. And it’s  _next_  to my bed, not  _in_  it. But while we’re at it, at least  _I_  didn’t cry at the ballet.”

“Yeah, but at least  _I_  don’t pose in front of the bathroom mirror with my top off, admiring my non-existent muscles,” Teddy crowed.

“Shut up!” Will ordered, now blushing furiously, eyes rooted to the table. “I’m practicing jujitsu stances, not posing.”

At this point, Molly came in from the kitchen to see what was going on, and seemed surprised to still see Sherlock standing there; it was only then it struck him that he probably should have been intervening. But he seemed to have been struck by a dumb fascination with his sons’ efforts to out-embarrass each other.

It was finally Bea who stopped them in their tracks.

“It’s obvious that you’re both massive dorks,” their sister said. “And neither of you is ever going to get girlfriends because you’re both so immature.”

“Who said anything about girlfriends?” asked Teddy, screwing up his nose in confusion. At thirteen, he was, Sherlock supposed, teetering on that cusp – although William didn’t seem overly preoccupied by that particular subject yet **,** either. Perhaps late-blooming ran in the male line.

“Probably an appropriate time to take a break,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat and hoping that Molly might vaguely believe he’d been managing the situation. “Theodore, I believe the dog is in need of some exercise; William, Vivaldi’s  _Concerto in A Minor_.”

Both boys groaned in protest, Teddy slumping forward on the table.

“You’re very welcome to swap if you like,” Sherlock told them brightly. “Although I’m not sure what that would do to the concert at the Royal Festival Hall on Saturday.”

Once Will and Teddy had sloped off in opposite directions, Molly made a quiet apology to Rosie before excusing herself and going back into the kitchen. Sherlock followed her, thinking that he perhaps required something a little stronger than tea right now. From up above them, he could hear Vivaldi's  _Concerto in A Minor_  being played with particularly aggressive vigour. 

“They’re both highly intelligent individuals,” he said, leaning against the counter with one arm. “So why is it that they turn into bickering simpletons in front of Rosie – especially Will?”

Molly turned around, a smile on her face.

“Will might be ‘highly intelligent’,” she said. “But he’s still fifteen, Sherlock. It’s hardly surprising that he wants to make himself look good in front of an older teenage girl – particularly Rosie.”

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, dipping into the large bowl of crisps that was waiting to go to the dining table. “It doesn’t help that Teddy is a shameless provocateur.”

Molly popped a crisp into her own mouth, too.

“I bet you used to wind up Mycroft in exactly the same way,” she said.

Sherlock snorted.

“Can't say the topic of Mycroft and girls came up that much."

As he reached back into the bowl of crisps, his brain caught up with him.

“Wait, why ‘particularly Rosie’”?” he asked, already certain that he wasn’t going to enjoy hearing the answer. In fact, it didn’t look as though Molly was actually planning to answer him – she was just looking at him slightly incredulously. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she nodded in confirmation.

“Oh God, no,” Sherlock said wearily, glancing towards the door. “There must be three-hundred girls at that school of his, not to mention his orchestra - the ones who all seem to be called Lavinia or Felicity. Why does he have to be fixated on the one in our dining room?”

Molly shrugged; it seemed that she wasn’t overly concerned.

“Well, maybe it would be best if Rosie didn’t come over for a while,” Sherlock suggested, lowering his voice. “Just until he settles down.”

When he looked up, Molly was gaping at him, and when he went for another crisp, she lightly smacked his hand away. Sherlock looked at her questioningly.

“Sherlock, it’s not Rosie’s fault that Will is a walking bag of hormones at the moment,” she said firmly. “It’s not his fault either. But we definitely can’t ask Rosie to stay away for the next five years. If he was making her feel uncomfortable, well, maybe we'd have to say something, but it's Will who's more uncomfortable – I don’t think Rosie has a clue."

Sherlock knew he should probably be volunteering to have a ‘talk’ with his son, although God knows what he would say if it came down to it. He didn’t think  _skip it till you’re forty_  was advice that would lift William’s spirits a great deal. However, he was saved from offering himself up for such an altruistic deed by the kitchen door opening and Rosie coming into the room.

“Bea’s gone upstairs to get changed,” she said, with a vague gesture behind her. “So, I…”

Rosie looked slightly hopeless for a moment, as though casting around for something.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Molly prompted.

_She’s sick. No, John’s sick. She owes someone money. She’s been expelled. Oh god, not pregnant?!_  Sherlock furiously shushed the competing, scaremongering voices in his head.  But then he saw his goddaughter take a deep breath, and when she looked up, her eyes were on him.

“I…I know this probably isn’t the best time, but I need to show you something,” Rosie said, taking her phone out of her jeans pocket. “It’s an article…I found it when I was looking around online. And I know that I shouldn’t, and I know that most things you read online aren’t true, but…then I found the same thing again in another article. I…I didn’t want to show Dad, especially if it’s just a stupid internet thing, so…”

A hard lump forming in his throat, Sherlock held his hand out for the phone. He pinched the screen and expanded the text; from the corner of his eye, he saw Molly silently coming up beside him. It wasn’t some obscure conspiracy blog in a dark corner of the internet that he was reading, but an inquest report published in a reputable newspaper. Mycroft had been able to limit the press reporting in the aftermath of Mary’s death, but this one had trickled out several months later.                                                        

“It says…” Rosie said, shifting from one foot to the other. “ _They_  say that my mum…when she died…that she deliberately stepped in front of you, Uncle Sherlock. Is that…is that true?”

 “Rosie, I…” Sherlock began. “We should wait until your father is around. He needs to be part of this conversation.”

Rosie pinched her lips together for a moment, blinking.

“So it  _is_  true then?”

“Rosie...” Molly began, and Sherlock knew she was going to try to talk their goddaughter down, but what good would it do? Rosie was right – she had her answer, or at least part of it, and having just part of it wasn’t an acceptable thing to leave her with.

“Yes. It is,” Sherlock said. “That’s what happened.”

Rosie blinked again, nodding slowly, absorbing the impact of his words.

“Okay,” she said, the word sounding as though it was reassurance to herself. “But...w-why? How did that happen?”

Molly took a step forward, her hand going out to lightly cup Rosie’s elbow.

“Shall we sit down?” she suggested, nodding towards the stools at the kitchen counter.

Rosie looked confused for a moment, and then seemed to shake it off, compose herself again.

“No, I’m…fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

_How would this work?_  Sherlock suddenly wondered.  _How could they have this conversation right now, on a normal, routine Saturday in their kitchen?_ He could still hear the strains of Angry-Vivaldi, overlaid with the sound of the shower running; while both were still audible – and so long as he didn’t hear Teddy’s key in the front door – they had a slim chance. 

“Your mum saw it coming,” Sherlock said, feeling as though someone was pressing down hard on his chest. “I didn’t - I should have, but I didn’t. There is no doubt whatsoever that she saved my life.”

“But…” – Rosie’s eyes flicked between Sherlock and Molly – “didn’t she…I mean, she must have known that she would get hurt, that she could be-”

Sherlock gave a single, slow nod.

“There’s no way she couldn’t have known,” he confirmed.

 “But that’s-” – Rosie shook her head – “that’s crazy – why would she…? I mean, I know you were her friend, Uncle Sherlock, but  _that_ …why did she…?”

It was one of a clutch of questions that he had been dreading throughout the past seventeen years, and one for which he still didn’t have an adequate answer. He knew that question had gnawed relentlessly at John in those early weeks and months, and Sherlock still wasn’t entirely sure his friend had made peace with it – and made peace with never truly knowing. It had haunted him, too, dogging him with the certainty that he didn’t deserve to be saved.

“Your mum loved Sherlock,” Molly said softly, moving closer to Rosie, but still giving her some space. “And she had a strong instinct to protect the people she loved.”

“Yes, but if she loved  _me_ , why would she do that?” Rosie replied. “Why would she do that if she knew she might never see me again?”

When Sherlock looked at her, he couldn’t help but see the confused, fretful infant he and Molly had held in their arms the night Mary died. It had been difficult enough for him to fathom that night, but once William was born, it became a sacrifice almost too overwhelming to contemplate. Although he had come to wonder whether, in a way, Mary almost saw  _him_  as her child, too; they had both joked about it - but perhaps he really had stirred maternal feelings in her. And what Sherlock could understand was a parent’s instinct to lay down their life for their child.

There was another possibility, too, of course – that Mary felt that she owed him somehow, for the bullet that nearly killed him on the floor of Magnussen’s office. But while the truth of Mary’s past still remained hidden from Rosie, he couldn’t begin to offer that as an explanation.

“I…I don’t know, Rosie,” he eventually admitted to her. “I have questioned it constantly over the years, why your mother chose to save me, when I was so completely undeserving, and when she had so much to live for. I wish, more than anything, that I could give you an answer that makes sense – believe me, Rosie, I have searched for it - but Mary took that answer with her.”

He knew that Molly had her own preferred theory, which John had more or less come to accept as his truth, too; that Mary felt that Sherlock Holmes was needed in the world - not just making it a safer place, but for the potential in himself that he had yet to realise, but, as it turned out, was so close to. But what comfort was that to Rosie? Mary had potential, too – in a way, her life had just been beginning.

“You mustn’t start thinking that she didn’t love you, Rosie,” Molly said, cautiously slipping her arm around their goddaughter’s shoulder. “Because she did - fiercely. We were there, we saw it - it was real.”

“I…I still don’t understand it,” Rosie said, seemingly unable to look at either of them. “I feel like…I feel like I’ve heard so many little parts of a story, but they don’t fit together, they don’t make sense. It’s all in the wrong order, and the more I hear, the less I think I understand about my mum. And I still get this feeling…I dunno…” – she paused, sounding almost apologetic – “…I feel like I still don’t know everything, that maybe there’s stuff you and dad are still trying to protect me from – but I don’t feel protected, I feel…unsettled, like I can’t properly accept what happened to my mum, because I’m always wondering whether there’s something else I’m missing.”

She wasn’t asking him outright, but she was entreating him with her eyes, and Sherlock couldn’t look away – he mustn’t. He already knew that he was going to tell her; he’d known from the moment Rosie first showed him her phone.

“Sherlock…”

Molly knew too, and she was entreating him as well, asking him not to act on impulse.

Upstairs, the sound of the shower abruptly cut out, and emerging from beneath it, Sherlock recognised the closing bars of the Vivaldi concerto. Teddy had probably taken the dog for the shortest walk he thought he could get away with, and very soon all three of them would arrive in search of lunch.

“There  _is_  something more I need to tell you, Rosie,” Sherlock said, slowly handing her phone back to her. “Something that I admit I have been holding back, but that you have a right to know. It may change your…view of me, although that isn’t the reason I haven’t told you. But I can’t do this without your father’s consent.”

Rosie was still staring at him, but then she gave the merest of nods. Sherlock glanced to Molly, who was already looking at him, ready to rescue him if he needed it. They exchanged the briefest of looks.

“I’ll call John,” she said simply.

00000000

He’d opened the back door for the cat, but long after the family pet had disappeared into the evening gloom, Sherlock was still out there himself. If ever an occasion was crying out for a cigarette, it was this one; although he acknowledged that if he attempted to smoke one now, he’d probably have a coughing fit loud enough to send all the urban wildlife of west London fleeing in alarm.

When he heard the door behind him, he assumed it would be Molly; it wouldn’t be the first time she’d found him out here after a difficult day.

“I don’t hate you, you know.”

He swung around to see Rosie on the step, wearing a hesitant sort of smile.

“I am…very relieved to hear it,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. “I…I had assumed you’d gone home.”

“I made Dad stop the cab before we’d even got to the end of the street,” Rosie said, hunching her shoulders in response to the evening air. “He’s waiting for me in the house.”

Rosie came over to the bench, and Sherlock took her lead as they both sat.

“I…I wanted to ask you something else, Uncle Sherlock,” she said. “But not in front of Dad – I saw how upset all this made him.”

Sherlock twisted his body around to face hers.

“Ask me.”

“Why didn’t you stop?” Rosie asked, her brow slightly furrowed. “You…you said my mum tried to warn you, so why didn’t you just…stop?”

Sherlock looked at their hands side by side on the bench - Rosie’s pale pink nail varnish and the silver ring on her thumb; his nicks and scars, now accompanied by the charming effects of late middle-age.

“Because…being right wasn’t enough,” he told her. “And bringing her to justice wasn’t enough. I  _couldn’t_  stop; I wanted to beat her down, to belittle her, to force her to admit what she really was.”

Rosie nodded slowly, taking this in.

“I thought I was in control, but never before had I been so deceived by appearances,” he continued. Even when Norbury was looking at him down the barrel of a gun, it wasn’t enough for him to actually see her as a threat – after all, it didn’t match his ‘profile’ of her. “And so blinded by my own arrogance,” he added.

“It seems weird,” Rosie said, with a sniff. “I can’t even imagine it – can’t imagine you doing that.”

Sherlock felt a rush of warmth to his chest; he couldn’t recall someone paying him a compliment, even an indirect one like this, that meant more.

“I…I don’t know what else to say, Rosie,” he said. “Except that what happened that night changed everything for me – I would never take that sort of chance ever again. And I learned by the harshest means possible that I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was.”

At that moment, footsteps could be heard on the steps behind them.

“’Sherlock Holmes not as clever as he thought he was’,” John said. “Wow, Rosie, I hope you were recording that.”

They both turned around; John came down into the garden, Molly following close behind him. She caught his eye questioningly, and he gave her a quick nod, which she returned with a look of relief on her face.

“Are you ready?” John asked his daughter. “I thought we could pick up a takeaway on the way home.”

Rosie nodded, picking up her rucksack and hoisting it onto one shoulder as she stood up.

“I…I didn’t ask how the book signings went?” Sherlock said, getting to his feet again.

“Really good,” John said brightly. “One of the shops sold out completely. The publishers have been approached by some events promoter about doing kind of ‘An Evening with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson’ thing, in case you fancy it? Although obviously I’d prefer if it was the other way around.”

Sherlock snorted.

“No, I do not, as you say, ‘fancy it’,” he replied. He’d had the displeasure of meeting his ‘fans’ before, and something like this was bound to bring the very strangest devotees out into the daylight for the first time in years.  

“I don’t get it,” Rosie put in. “So they reckon people would actually  _pay_  to come and watch two old men argue with each other?” 

She grinned as her dad put his arm around her, giving her a warning look. Molly gave Rosie’s arm an affectionate pat as they turned to go back through the house.

“Oh, will you wish Will good luck in his exams this week?” Rosie said, over her shoulder.

“He’s in the living room, restringing his violin,” Molly told her. “The others are watching TV. Just stick you head in before you leave, if you like - I’m sure he’d prefer to hear it from you.”

Sherlock felt a mild spark of alarm course through him, and once John and Rosie were safely back in the house, he turned to Molly questioningly.

 “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“What? Encouraging normal interactions between two friends?” she replied. “I didn’t suggest she go and snog him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled a face and wished she hadn’t put that image into his mind. But it didn’t seem worth trying to fight the point; in these matters, he should probably just defer to Molly’s better judgement – and wider experience.

“Are you staying out here a bit longer?” she asked, her fingers trailing down his arm.

Sherlock paused for a moment, listening to the low, reassuring thrum of traffic beyond the boundaries of their house and garden. It always helped him to feel connected to the city, and sometimes that was what he needed – but not tonight. It was a cruel trick of the universe that the people he had loved most in his life couldn’t inhabit the world at the same time; if Mary had lived that night, the bullet buried in his own heart would have ensured the three extraordinary, beloved children now in his living room would never have come into being. But against the odds – and in defiance of every self-destructive thing he’d done in the first forty years of his life - they _were_ there. He’d taken the currency Mary had bestowed upon him, and it seemed impossible to imagine anything more worthy and worthwhile he could have invested it in.  

“No, let’s go inside,” he told Molly, holding out his hand. “I quite fancy watching some crap telly.”

 “Sounds good,” she smiled, their fingers interlocking as they walked back to the house.

“Do you think we’d all still fit on the sofa?” Sherlock mused.

Molly looked up at him with an amused, sideways look.

“Stacked up horizontally maybe,” she smiled. “Not sure about side by side anymore.”

She was smiling, but Sherlock could see that she understood.

“I think I’d like to try anyway.”

 


	17. The Two Rosamunds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Molly and John find themselves with some potentially life-changing information in their hands - but is Rosie old enough yet to cope with what she might discover?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to geekmama for giving this a reassuring once-over.
> 
> And the first part of this chapter is dedicated to KD and Juldooz, for reasons that will hopefully become obvious ;-)

Over the years, the pattern of their evenings had been constantly evolving. When the children were small, bedtimes were in theory fairly early, and, assuming that Sherlock wasn’t working a case, should have afforded them several hours together before the end of the day. However, in practice there was ‘bedtime’ and then there was ‘actual bedtime’. ‘Bedtime’ was the formal ritual of the children being tucked into bed and lights being turned off, but ‘actual bedtime’ was any time between thirty minutes and two hours later, during which time she and Sherlock took turns chasing their offspring back upstairs, with Sherlock in particular becoming less and less receptive to requests for drinks of water, claims of ‘not being tired’, sudden urges to share random thoughts, and other assorted stalling tactics.

It seemed, though, that no sooner had everyone finally accepted the concept of ‘bedtime’ than William was suddenly at an age where his bedtime wasn’t quite so early – followed in due course by Teddy, and far too quickly by Bea, who was always quick to play the ‘unfair’ card. As things were now, evenings had been squeezed to the point that by the time Will’s light went off, Molly was already halfway to bed herself. But even though this window of time was short, Sherlock always seemed keen to make sure it wasn’t eliminated from their day entirely. Sometimes he would work and she would read, sometimes she would watch TV and he would pretend not to, sometimes Sherlock would fight the cat for territorial rights to Molly’s lap, and sometimes…

“Didn’t you say something about being tired, Molly?” Sherlock chuckled; Molly could feel his smirk against her neck, along with the rasp of his end-of-the-day stubble.

She lifted her face from his shoulder, and then the rest of her far enough away from his body to shoot him a look.

“Well,  _now_  I’m tired,” she smiled.

His arms were still slack around her waist, and he pulled her against his bare chest again, tilting his chin to look up at her; Sherlock Holmes’ blissed-out, post-coital gaze really was a privilege she would never grow tired of.

“All I can say is that I now understand why the internal doors in all these old Victorian houses all have locks,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Definitely helps with spontaneity,” Molly replied, biting down on a smile.

“ _And_  when you reach the stage of life where the idea of scaling two flights of stairs before you can initiate sex feels like a monumental effort,” he added, placing a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

Molly couldn’t help but giggle, Sherlock’s hand steadying her as she swung herself off his lap and onto the sofa cushion beside him. Almost immediately, he swooped down again, lightly pinning her to the sofa and laying a trail of kisses from her clavicle up to her right ear; after eighteen years, Sherlock knew exactly where and what would get a reaction from her, but he still seemed boyishly pleased with himself whenever he could elicit from her a spontaneous moan. And Molly wasn’t about to deny him that.

He hovered over her, still bracing his arms against the sofa, a slight look of concentration passing over his face. Molly eyed him curiously.

“Do you need some help getting up?” she grinned. “I can give you a push, if you like.”

“Thank you, Molly, I’m fine,” he replied, rolling his eyes and hauling himself into a sitting position. “Full decrepitude is a few years away yet.”

“You should start coming to yoga with me,” she told him, pulling the jumper over her head and scanning the floor for her pants.

“Much as I am grateful for the effect that yoga has on your agility and flexibility, Molly,” Sherlock said, making no effort, she noticed, to get dressed again. “I think I’ll stick to chasing suspects at a light jog – and  _these_  regular cardiovascular workouts, which are also very beneficial.”

“Are you going to put  _any_  clothes on?” Molly queried, wriggling back into her underwear.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied. “Then I would have to take them off again before I go in the shower.”

Molly opened her mouth to answer but stalled on hearing Sherlock’s phone vibrate against the coffee table. They both glanced at it, but Sherlock seemed to be happy to ignore it.

“For their sake, let’s hope you don’t encounter any of the children on your way,” she told him.

Sherlock snorted.

“After ten o’clock at night, the house is mine to walk around in, in the state of my choosing,” he said, hooking his trousers with his toe and flipping them into his waiting hand. “I used to do it regularly at Baker Street.”

“Yes, I know - John told me,” Molly told him, handing him his shirt. “It’s been twenty years and I still don’t think he’s fully recovered.”

At that moment, Sherlock’s phone began to buzz again, but this time more persistently – not a text message, but a call. Sherlock made an angry swipe for his phone and Molly watched while he adjusted its position to accommodate his eyesight.

“My brother,” he murmured, but there was a hint of uncertainty mixed in with the irritation. It wasn’t surprising – Sherlock’s parents were now both in their nineties, and although he never said so, Molly knew that he was bracing himself for  _that_  call coming one day.  

“Mycroft,” he said plainly, as he answered.

Molly watched the progression of expressions on Sherlock’s face, while simultaneously seeking out her trousers. She hadn’t planned on getting fully dressed, but now she suddenly felt slightly exposed – a problem that didn’t seem to be afflicting Sherlock.

“It’s eleven o’clock on a Thursday night and I’m fifty-seven years old,” Sherlock was saying. “Of course that wasn’t what we were doing.”

There was a pause.

“Wait, how do you even know we’re in the living room?” Sherlock continued, before something appeared to dawn on him. “You know, voyeurism is beneath even you, Mycroft. Why don’t you just ring the doorbell like a normal human being?”

He set his phone down and turned back to Molly.

“My brother apparently has some news that can’t wait,” he said. “And it pains me to say it, but I think this conversation may require pants.”

00000000

 

Mycroft had accepted Molly’s offer of tea, but all three of the cups were still untouched on the dining table. Sherlock’s brother was, ostensibly, retired from government work, but Molly hadn’t seen much sign of it yet – she couldn’t really see him taking up gardening or charity work.

“When did this happen?” Sherlock asked.

“Two days ago,” Mycroft replied, his hand resting on the top of his cane as he sat. “She suffered a massive stroke in her cell – wasn’t discovered until the next morning. She was taken to hospital, but never regained consciousness. I assumed you would both want to know.”

Molly was still taking this in. It was something that crossed her mind as the years ticked by and Rosie got older, but she had taken the conscious decision to give Vivian Norbury as little thought as possible. She knew that most prisoners in Norbury’s position would have been paroled or even released long before this, but Mycroft Holmes was a man who could make exceptions happen. Now, finally, at the age of eighty-eight, the woman who killed Mary was dead.

She exchanged glances with Sherlock before he spoke.

“I’ll tell John,” he said simply.

Mycroft made no move to go, and Molly watched his manicured fingers tap slowly, silently on the table top.

“There is something further,” he continued. “Something that has occurred as a result, something that has been put into my hands.”

Mycroft swung his briefcase onto the table, clicked open the locks and drew out a thin cardboard file with elastic fastenings. He placed it in front of him on the table, resting one hand gently on top of it.

“Who?” Sherlock asked, clearly trying to read his brother’s expression. “Not Norbury?”

Mycroft gave a barely-perceptible shake of the head.

“Mary Watson,” he replied. “Although nowhere in this file is she referred to by that name.”

At this, Molly instantly felt the pace of her heart start to increase. She looked at Sherlock, saw him swallow, blink, try to compose himself before responding again.

“Her sealed records,” Mycroft continued. “Everything about Mary Watson’s identity and background before she was recruited by our government, before her very existence was – for reasons of national security - erased from public record.”

Molly saw Sherlock’s whole body stiffen; he moistened his lips as though to speak, but instead stared at the file for a long moment before looking up at his brother again.

“What’s in there, Mycroft?” he asked. “I don’t mean the details, but…what sort of information are we looking at here?”

From time to time, there were moments where Molly would detect a spark of genuine empathy from her brother-in-law, and this was one of those.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “I haven’t opened it. I am retired, remember?”

“You’re…leaving this with us?” Molly heard herself asking.

“I can also make it disappear, if that is what you’d prefer,” Mycroft replied. “We can pretend that I just came over for a friendly chat.”

“That’s infinitely less plausible,” Sherlock replied crisply.

“It was not my intention to burden you with this information, Sherlock,” his brother said, with a light sigh. “But I have learnt that even with the best of intentions, secrecy can breed its own ills. And…I am also aware that John’s daughter must have questions about her mother that have hitherto gone unanswered. If he was to review this information, perhaps it could go some way to addressing that.”

Sherlock nodded, and when Mycroft slowly slid the file across the table, his own hand came down to rest on it. The weight of what was now in their hands was clearly not lost on him, as it was not lost on Molly. As Mycroft rose from his chair, she thanked him for coming; after everything that had passed in the last eighteen years, she trusted his intentions towards them.

“I’ll leave you to…whatever it was you were so emphatically  _not_  doing when I arrived,” Mycroft said, addressing Sherlock with a thin smile as he moved towards the hall. “Oh, and out of interest, which one of your children managed to relieve me of my phone during my last visit and alter my ringtone? ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ – very amusing.”

Molly pinched her lips together to prevent any laughter escaping, although this moment of humour was a welcome salve.

“Now, let’s see,” Sherlock replied, pretending to muse on the subject. “Pick-pocketing…hacking…a highly-developed talent for mischief-making. It makes me exceedingly proud that it could have been any one of them.”

Once Mycroft had gone, they stood there, side-by-side in silence for a moment, Sherlock still holding the file in his hand. There was no question either would look at it, despite the strong pull that Molly couldn’t help but feel. Without uttering a word, Sherlock brought his free hand up behind her to gently pull her head towards his, pressing a kiss to her temple. When they parted, she heard him inhale deeply.

They made their way upstairs, but before they could climb the second flight of stairs to their bedroom, Will appeared in the doorway of his room. Long and rangy, and dressed in a t-shirt and striped pyjamas bottoms, he reminded Molly so strongly of the way Sherlock looked when she first knew him. He even sounded like Sherlock these days, now that his voice had fully broken. 

He also looked wide awake.

“What’s going on?” he asked, in a loud whisper. “I heard Uncle Mycroft.”

Molly crossed the landing to him, touching his arm.

“Sorry we woke you, sweetheart,” she said. “It’s nothing to worry about – go back to bed.”

“But what was he doing here so late?”

Molly felt Sherlock’s presence behind her.

“It relates to an old case,” Sherlock said. “Very old. Before you were born.”

“Why is it suddenly so important?" Will persisted, pushing his curls out of his eyes. “Is everyone okay?”

Molly was about to reassure him again when she felt Sherlock’s fingertips graze her arm.

“William, the person who killed John’s wife – Rosie’s mother – is dead,” Sherlock said; it was matter-of-fact, but there was a gentleness to his tone.

Will pushed another errant curl out of his eyes, looking cautiously between his parents.

“I…okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “Does…does Rosie know?”

Molly should have known that would be her son’s first thought; whether Will’s crush on Rosie was just a passing phase - or whether he was just better at keeping the evidence of it under wraps these days - before anything else, the two teenagers were close friends.

“No, not yet,” Molly told him, realising how touched she was by her son’s concern. “Your dad and I will see if we can go and talk to John tomorrow evening – it would help us a lot if you could keep an eye on Teddy and Bea?”

Will nodded, but his mind was clearly at least partly elsewhere.

“So…” he said, his eyes lively as he ordered his thoughts. “What does it mean? You know, that she’s dead?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, lifting a hand to rest it on their son’s shoulder. “Just that she’s dead. That’s all.”

Will was still studying Sherlock’s face as he turned his head slightly.

“Mum?”

Molly didn’t know what else to do except nod in agreement. It was obvious that Will wasn’t entirely persuaded – he was genetically predisposed to that – but what else could they say at this point? Reluctantly, clearly seeing that it was going no further, Will stooped to receive Molly’s hug and returned to his room. As she took Sherlock’s hand and led him up the stairs, she wondered whether any of them would sleep soundly that night.

00000000

John was sitting on the sofa in his living room, elbows on his knees and his hands steepled on either side of his face, fingertips pressed into the bridge of his nose. When Sherlock had broken the news about Vivian Norbury's death, John had responded with a sharp bark of choked laughter, and it became clear from his body language that he didn't want to hear any more than the headlines. Molly wasn't sure then whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that this was just the preface.

“Where is it?” John asked, straightening up. “Have you got it with you?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “It’s back at the house.”

They had left the folder locked in a desk drawer; Molly had persuaded Sherlock that seeing the file in front of his eyes, in touching distance, could prejudice John into making a rash decision he could later regret.

“Have…have you looked at it, either of you?”

“No,” Molly told him. “Nobody has. It…it had to be you, your decision.”

“Good,” he nodded quickly, his eyes cast towards the rug on the floor. “Fine. Decision made. Throw it away, burn it, feed it to the dog, I don’t care. But I don’t need to see it.”

“Are you certain that’s what you want, John?” Sherlock said, measuredly.

“Yes. It is, Sherlock,” John replied, firmly. “Although I’m getting the feeling you think I’m wrong about this, as with so many other things.”

“I don’t think there  _is_  a wrong here,” Sherlock told him. “But this is your one opportunity; if we destroy that file, the information there is lost forever – and with it goes the only chance you have of finding out who Mary really was, and the only chance Rosie has to piece together where she comes from.”

“I  _know_  who she was,” John retorted. “I know as much as I need to know. Mary was happy being Mary Watson, she wanted to leave everything else behind her – I think it was pretty clear that nothing good came of digging up her past.”

“But…what about before all that?” Molly ventured. “Where she was born, who she started out as?”

John sighed, shaking his head.

“I didn’t need to know her real name nineteen years ago, and nothing has changed,” he said. “To me, she was always - will always - be Mary.”

“What do you mean her real name?”

The three adults instinctively followed the voice to the doorway, where Rosie was standing. Still wearing her jacket, and with one earphone still in her ear, she had very obviously returned from her boyfriend’s house much earlier than John expected. The look on her face, the utter bewilderment and incomprehension, made Molly’s heart crumple; out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock looked shell-shocked.

“Dad?” Rosie prompted, dragging the earphone out and bundling it into her hand.

John started to get to his feet.

“Rosie, I thought you-”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, distractedly. “I came back early; I…er…I got a text from Will.”

Molly glanced across to Sherlock, but barely had time to gauge his reaction before Rosie spoke again, this time with a renewed persistence.  

“What is this all about?” she asked, looking between all three of them. “What do you mean by Mum’s ‘real name’, and what’s this stuff about a file?”

She had been outside the room for much longer than any of them had realised, and judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t going anywhere, and wasn’t likely to be placated – even if there was something they could attempt to placate her with.

Instead, John took a step towards her; he gave a quick exhalation, a tiny, tight smile flashing across his face, perhaps acknowledging the magnitude of what he was about to relate to his daughter, and possibly because of how absurd it was likely to sound.

“Your mum…her real name wasn’t Mary,” he said. “It was Rosamund. And I don’t know what her surname was, only that it wasn’t Morstan.”

Rosie’s features were fixed in an expression of complete disorientation.

“W-what?” she eventually managed. “How can…She was called Rosamund?”

“That was her birth name, yes,” John said. “But she…wasn’t able to keep it. That’s why she…that’s why she wanted to give it to you, although I didn’t know all that when you were born.”

He broke off, gave a chuff of chagrined laughter.

“We were all set to call you Catherine.”

Rosie looked even more lost and bewildered now, and Molly couldn’t let it carry on. Without a word, she crossed the room and guided her gently across to her chair, the one that had been a gift from Sherlock. Molly pulled the nearest chair across, to sit beside her; she covered Rosie’s hand with hers, fully prepared for her goddaughter to pull away.

“Why did she change her name?” Rosie asked, as John came to sit at the end of the sofa, as close to her as he could. “And how could you not have known?”

Before John could reply, Rosie turned her head to face Sherlock.

“And how could  _you_  not have known, Uncle Sherlock?” she asked. “I mean, you know everything about people, even the stuff they don’t want you to find out.”

Sherlock flicked a glance to John before taking a breath.

“Because your mother was extraordinarily good at keeping secrets,” he said. “And I mean that in the most complimentary way possible, Rosie. It was what she had been trained to do – it had been her livelihood, her very existence before she met your dad.”

“What do you mean ‘livelihood’? Like her job?” Rosie frowned, her voice starting to betray her upset. “You told me Mum was a nurse; that’s how you met her, at the clinic you worked at. Is that…is that a lie?”

“No,” John said firmly, vehemently shaking his head. “No, she was a nurse. But what I didn’t know when I met her, Rosie, what I only found out much later – after we were married, in fact – was that for most of her adult life she had a very different job. She…well, a long time ago, she worked for the government.”

Rosie frowned again.

“What, like Mycroft?”

“No, very different,” Sherlock told her. “My brother sits behind a big desk and sends people memos. Your mum was part of an elite, highly-secretive unit, out in the field. You’ve heard of the SAS, Rosie?”

She nodded.

“Well, a bit like that,” Sherlock said. “Or if you took the SAS and crossed it with MI6, but kept its existence a state secret, that would begin to give you an idea of what your mum was part of.”

At this, Rosie turned to look at Molly, a look of complete incredulity on her face. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Molly felt she could no nothing else but nod.

“Wait – so…my mum…she, like, carried a gun and…what did she actually do?”

“Whatever the government at the time needed her to do,” Sherlock replied. “It was all classified; there would be no record of any of the missions in which she was involved.”

Molly curled her fingers around Rosie’s hand.

“Rosie…do you remember, years ago, when you showed me that box your mum made for you?” she began, gently. “Do you remember that postcard?”

There was immediate recognition on Rosie’s face, followed very quickly by realisation.

“Yeah, I didn’t understand it,” Rosie said. “But…you knew what it was about?”

Molly nodded, feeling tears start to prick the back of her eyes. She refused to allow them to come to anything, though; Rosie needed strength from her now – clarity and honesty.

“AGRA was an acronym,” Molly said. “I mean, it is a place, too, but it was also the name of the…unit that your mum was part of. She and some other people she worked with decided to go off on their own, so they could take on other jobs besides working for the government.”

“What does AGRA even mean then?” Rosie asked; she was clearly trying to be adult, rational, but the hurt and confusion penetrated every word.

“It was their names. The R stood for Rosamund,” Sherlock put in.

At this, Rosie did withdraw her hand, using it to swipe at her cheek.

“None of this-” she started. “All of it…it’s...how can any of it be true?”

John bowed his head, then looked up at his daughter again.

“I asked that too, Rosie,” he said. “When I found out. Sherlock and Molly can tell you that there was a period of weeks…months…while Mary was pregnant with you, when we were barely speaking to each other. Or I wasn’t speaking to her, more like. I honestly wasn’t sure that we could get past it, because all I could think was that everything your mum had told me, everything I thought I knew about her, was a lie. And it wasn't a little lie, it was a  _big_  lie.”

“But…you did,” Rosie said, hesitantly, questioningly. "Get past it."

“Yes,” John replied, the word strangled. “Because I loved her. And I thought maybe that made me an idiot, a mug, but I just wanted  _her_. I realised that how we felt about each other  _wasn't_  a lie, and so the only thing really standing in in our way, keeping us apart, was my pride."

He paused, gave a sniff of laughter.

"Besides, your Uncle Sherlock pretended he was dead for two years, and I got over  _that,"_ he said. "Mind, I did punch him in the face, which wasn't really an option with your mum."

"And headbutted me," Sherlock put in. "I was amazed to discover that you were tall enough for your forehead to make contact with my nose."

Molly noticed that Rosie barely reacted to John’s attempt to ease the tension; instead, she hunched forward in her chair, her arms wrapped protectively around her middle.

“So…she just gave all that up one day?” Rosie asked, doubtfully. “And decided to become a nurse?”

John reached across the arms of the chair and clasped Rosie’s hand with his; she stared down at their hands, but to Molly’s relief, she didn’t reject him.

“We didn’t talk about it, but I think maybe it was her way of making amends for her past,” he said quietly. “It was everything that her previous job – her previous life – wasn’t.”

Molly looked up at this; she had come to the same conclusion herself, had shared her theory with Sherlock. It was Mary’s penitence, the thing she hoped would give her peace.

“But,” John said, gently rubbing the back of Rosie’s hand with his thumb. “Your mum couldn’t help wanting more – it was just who she was. She couldn’t stay away from the action; she loved what Sherlock and I did, and she felt like she was part of it.”

There was a long pause; Rosie’s free hand fidgeted with a frayed hole in her jeans.

“That’s why she was at aquarium that night,” Rosie said eventually. “Because she wanted to be…part of it.”

As she watched Sherlock give a single, slow nod, Molly was acutely aware of how inadequate the truth was.

“So the stuff in the file is about this… _work_  she did for the government?” Rosie asked, blinking.

“No, before that,” John told her. “It’s information about who your mum was before she chose that life.”

At this, Rosie straightened up in her chair, as though she’d experienced a revelation.

“I want to see it,” she said. “Is it here? Have you got it?”

“Molly and Sherlock have it,” John told her, his face suddenly pained. “Not here - at their house. But Rosie, I…it isn’t up to you, sweetheart. I have to decide wh-”

“What do you mean?” Rosie interjected. “Why wouldn’t you want to see it? You’re saying you didn’t know anything about her, Dad, and now you can find out everything.”

“Rosie, it isn’t as easy as that,” John said, setting his jaw in an attempt, Molly could tell, to rein in his emotions. “We don’t know what’s in that file, and you might discover things that…that you don’t like.”

“Like what?” Rosie demanded.

“I…I don’t know,” John said, swallowing. “That’s my point.”

“But I know nothing about my mum, and neither do you,” she retorted.

“I know enough,” John told her. “I accepted her for who she was. She was my wife, and she was you mum, and none of the rest of it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Rosie insisted, her voice wavering a little. “If we found out who Mum really was, then maybe we’d find people who knew her, who could tell us things about her – maybe even relatives. I might have another set of grandparents, or uncles or aunts, or cousins out there somewhere.”

Molly could see that John was struggling, that there were things he probably wanted to blurt out at his daughter but knew he couldn’t. Did he feel like Rosie was telling him that he wasn’t enough?

“Rosie, I may not know a lot about your mum’s past,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure that she was trying to escape something, and maybe that something was her family, so even if there  _are_  people out there who are related to you, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re good people.”

Again, Rosie swiped at her cheek, this time with the cuff of her jumper. Molly glanced at Sherlock and could see the naked anguish on his face.

“It’s okay for you,” Rosie said, blinking, clearly hating the fact that the tears were winning. “You’ve  _got_  family, even if you don’t like them, or you’re not close to them – I don’t even have that choice. It’s not fair for you to say I can’t see what’s in this file, Dad; I’m nearly eighteen, I’m not a little girl anymore.”

John scrubbed his hands through his hair and got to his feet; Rosie was watching him, as he paced over to the bookshelves and stood there for a long moment, his back turned, his hands on his hips. Slowly, he turned around; he was nodding slowly, his eyes focused on the floor in front of him.

“You’re right,” he said, nodding, gaze still downcast. “You’re right, Rosie – you  _are_  going to be eighteen soon, and…and if you get there and still feel the same as you do tonight - that you still want to see the contents of that file - you can, and I won’t stand in your way. And what’s more…”

He looked up, waiting until she was returning his gaze.

“…I will be there for you, whatever decision you make,” he added. “And…I’m sure that Sherlock and Molly will, too.”

Molly found herself slightly caught off-guard by John’s words; she realised that, subconsciously, she had been preparing herself for dealing with the fall-out of what seemed like his inevitable refusal, delivered to Rosie with the kind of finality that would inflame and devastate his daughter. Such occasions had been thankfully few over the years, but they all stuck in the memory; John’s fuse burned short, but Rosie’s determination was strong – and of course Mary was the ultimate in emotive subjects for both of them. But to John’s credit, he had not exploded on impact – perhaps it was the years of therapy, Molly reflected, or perhaps he realised there was very little he could do about Rosie’s impending adulthood.

“Okay,” Rosie eventually replied, clearly still recovering from the same surprise that Molly felt. “Thank you. That’s…good. I really...I can wait that long.”

“Good,” John replied, offering a hesitant, conciliatory smile. “I’m…I’m glad.”

He approached her, and Rosie allowed herself to be pulled into a gentle hug; there was a little stiffness in both of them initially, Molly noticed, but it represented a truce on the subject, and a willingness to keep communicating. Neither had got what they wanted, but both of them had hope.  

Sherlock assured Rosie that he would keep the file safe until she came to a decision, and he and Molly left the two Watsons to continue their conversation and reconciliation. Molly couldn’t help feeling that they’d just set Rosie’s world alight again and were now backing away from the flames, but before their cab had even reached their house, Sherlock held out his phone for her to see:

**Thanks - both of you. Speak soon – JW**

Molly had barely had time to read it before her own phone chirped in her bag.

**Thank you – R xx**

When Molly showed it to Sherlock, he looked visibly relieved. He took her hand, and she leaned into the warmth of his shoulder, a wordless recognition of yet another storm weathered together. As the taxi turned into their street, Molly’s phone signalled the arrival of another text.

**Please don’t be angry at Will? – R xx**

On seeing this, Sherlock snorted and cocked an eyebrow in mild incredulity. 

"Our first-born is fortunate that I've had my fill of tense family dramas for one evening," he said.

"He can't have told her anything," Molly reasoned, already sensing that Sherlock anyway didn't have the heart for a confrontation with their son, which in the grand scheme of things now felt very trivial. "I mean, just enough to get her to go home, I suppose."

“Hm,” Sherlock replied, noncommittal.

“Plus, your mum’s told me the kind of things _you_ were doing when  _you_  were seventeen,” she reminded him over her shoulder, as they reached their front gate.

He really had no course for comeback on that one; off the top of her head (and excluding the enthusiastic consumption of illegal substances), Molly could recall hearing about two school expulsions, several incidents of being reported missing, one episode of stowing away on a flight to Abu Dhabi, numerous attempts at impersonating law enforcement, and the theft and joyriding of Mycroft’s beloved Ford Cortina through the villages and hamlets of West Sussex. In comparison, Will Holmes was a choirboy.

They paused outside the gate, and in the light cast from the nearest street lamp, Molly could see Sherlock frowning slightly.

“It’s just occurred to me that after all that, we never did tell Rosie about Norbury’s death,” he said, pensively, his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets.

Nor, for that matter, Molly thought, about the connection between Mary and the woman who killed her – it really did feel like an endless unravelling, where each revelation had its tangled origin in another.

“In the context of everything else,” Sherlock added, glancing at her. “It suddenly feels like an insignificant footnote.”

Molly thought about the thin seam of guilt, grief, sadness and anxiety that had run through their lives for so long; the gunshot that echoed for eighteen years. She reached over to gently drag Sherlock’s hand out of his pocket, lacing her fingers with his.

“I think maybe that’s how it should be,” she said.

Sherlock looked down at her for a moment, regarding her with a warm, thoughtful expression.

“Come on,” Molly whispered, squeezing his hand. “Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	18. The End and the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie stays over at Sherlock and Molly's house one last time before starting university...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter is a long one - I hope that turns out to be a good thing rather than a tedious inconvenience to everyone who has stuck with it this far! 
> 
> This fic has been in my head for most of 2018, so it's quite odd to be finally bringing it to a close (slightly worried that it might have been the one thing keeping my brain functioning normally - we shall see...!) 
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos or commented on this story - and in particular to the regular commenters (you hopefully know who you are!), whose feedback has made me smile and kept me motivated. And finally, thanks to geekmama, whose beta-ing and encouragement has enabled me to post with confidence :-) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fluff!

Traffic had been slow between the Watsons’ flat and the Holmes’ west London abode, and Bea hadn’t stopped talking the entire time. Molly had noticed the taxi driver surreptitiously putting in his earphones after about ten minutes, and on the seat beside her, Sherlock had been getting increasingly fidgety and irritable. He almost looked ready to make a break for it when the cab stopped at a red light. Molly didn’t have a huge amount of sympathy, though, considering that the non-stop, slightly hyperactive, totally unselfconscious gabbling was a distinctly Holmesian trait – Bea was exactly like Sherlock was when he had the opportunity and audience to expound on a topic he loved. And in Bea’s case, on this occasion, the topic was Rosie’s upcoming overnight stay.

“As soon as we get in, I’m going to show you the kittens – they’re so cute!” Bea was gushing. “Dad says we can’t keep them, but Mum says it’s his fault for not getting Winston neutered.”

At this, Molly saw Sherlock roll his eyes. For the past three years, she had been living with the assumption that the cat had undergone the necessary procedure, only to discover a few weeks ago that the task of taking Winston to the vet (while she was at a conference) had slipped Sherlock’s mind when he’d been presented with a triple murder in Wokingham. For all Molly knew, Winston had probably fathered most of the local cat population, but this was the first time that parentage had been proven absolutely. Mrs Argyll from across the street had turned up one day with an expression like thunder, and a cardboard box containing six kittens, four of which had virtually identical markings to the Holmes family cat. Despite this suggestive evidence – or possibly just to annoy Mrs Argyll - Sherlock had refuted it and insisted that Winston and his alleged offspring undergo DNA testing, although Molly had drawn the line at him using the path lab for such purposes.

“Are you sure your father can’t be persuaded, Rosie?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Maybe if I wasn’t going away in a week’s time,” Rosie replied, smiling. “I would absolutely love one, but Dad’s not really a cat person.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock responded. “Twenty-three years, and we’ve finally found the thing John and I have in common.”

“We’ll find homes for them,” Molly said, to placate Sherlock and reassure Rosie, although she wasn’t massively confident – not many people would be actively looking for a pedigree Persian crossed with a rescue cat.

“Oh, and we’re having takeaway from Angelo’s tonight!” Bea declared, moving onto a new topic. “So we need to choose that when we get home - although Will and Teddy won’t have to choose because they  _always_  have the same thing - and then Dad will have to help me move the fold-up bed into my room, and you can put all your stuff in there, and I can show you my new school uniform for September and the project I’m working on for coding club, and that really funny YouTube video I was talking about earlier, and-”

“Breathe, Beatrice,” Sherlock told her, earning a smile from Rosie. “Rosie will be with us for nearly twenty-four hours, so there is no need to exhaust all possibly topics of conversation before we reach the front door. And, oh look, the gods of private-hire transport are smiling on us, because here in fact is our front door.”

“I’m just excited!” Bea declared.

“Really? I’d never have guessed,” Sherlock replied, exchanging a look with Molly.

“It’s ages since Rosie’s been over to our house,” Bea continued. “And it’s, like,  _years_  since she’s actually stayed over.”

It wasn’t. But Bea years seemed to be like dog years – perhaps not surprising given her close affinity with Mycroft-the-dog.

They piled into the house, Sherlock carrying Rosie’s overnight bag, and Bea running ahead to make sure the kittens were all safely contained in the back room. Thankfully, the dog had decided to adopt a paternal, protective role in relation to the kittens – unlike the kittens’ actual father, who would occasionally enter the room and look askance at the sight of other felines apparently on his territory.

Sherlock set Rosie’s bag down in the hallway, and they were all heading for the kitchen – tea very much on Molly’s mind – when Teddy sauntered out to greet them.

“How’s your dad?” he asked Rosie, through a mouthful of something.

“Teddy, we’ll be having dinner soon,” Molly sighed. “What are you eating?”

“Crisp sandwich,” her younger son replied, swallowing.

“Ooh, what flavour crisps?” Sherlock cut in, before Molly could remonstrate.

“Prawn cocktail,” Teddy replied.

“Mm, not bad,” Sherlock told him. “Although roast beef is obviously the superior choice.”

Nearly twenty years of co-habiting and home-cooked meals had only gone so far in curbing Sherlock’s junk food proclivities; he and Teddy were a liability when left on their own with a full cupboard and fridge.

“My dad’s doing well, by the way,” Rosie said, catching Molly’s eye as she said so, and grinning.

“Cool,” Teddy replied, nodding. “Sorry my dad nearly killed him.”

Molly shot Teddy a look at the same time as a similar one was being aimed at him from Sherlock’s direction.

“What?” Teddy asked, innocently. “She said Uncle John’s okay.”

Although there had never really been a threat to John’s life, they had all had a slight scare two weeks earlier, when, as he and Sherlock were chasing a suspect on foot through Billingsgate Market, John had been seized by chest pains and collapsed to the ground.

“Your dad  _saved_  my dad,” Rosie replied, glancing at Sherlock. “Not that my dad would admit it, though.”

It had only been when Molly had arrived at the hospital with Rosie - armed only with the fragments of information from Sherlock’s text – and spotted a rickshaw abandoned by the main entrance, that she started to understand what Sherlock saving John had involved. According to John, later on, at the sight of bumper to bumper traffic, Sherlock had hijacked the tourist rickshaw outside the market, turfed out the American couple who were en route to the Tower of London, and commandeered the vehicle from its driver.  Then, Sherlock had, according to eyewitnesses and the many mobile phone videos that had emerged, hauled John into the rickshaw and pedalled like a demon to the nearby Royal London Hospital. The reception staff had been greeted by the sight of two middle-aged men, gripping tightly to each other, both out of breath, and both distinctly smelling of the fishy wares of Billingsgate. 

The Holmes children outwardly professed the whole idea of Sherlock pedaling  _anything_  to be utterly hilarious, but Molly could tell that this small act of pedal-powered heroism had made more impact on them than any of Sherlock’s professional capers.

Lying in his hospital bed, hooked up to a heart monitor, John had jokingly blamed Sherlock for the mild heart attack that had been diagnosed – it was only a matter of time before Sherlock killed him, he said. He’d also railed out how unfair it was that Sherlock seemed to be so fit and healthy, despite the fact that for nearly twenty-five years, he’d been smoking unfiltered cigarettes, guzzling Class A drugs, and subsisting on an erratic diet of mostly takeaway food and biscuits. (“While I, Sherlock, I drag myself out on a bloody bike three times a week, and mostly eat incredibly boring food that is supposed to be doing amazing things for my heart.”) Sherlock had smiled along with his friend, but when John wasn’t looking, Molly could see the concern etched on his face, the quiet relief; she couldn’t help but loving him even more for it.

This sleepover had been organised prior to John’s illness, at Rosie’s request; she wanted to have one final overnight stay before she started university. She wasn’t going very far (to John’s delight, she’d been accepted onto the Journalism degree course at Goldsmith’s), but she would be living in student halls, and everyone was quietly aware that this was the end of an era. Rosie had been hesitant about leaving John, to spend the night elsewhere, but he had insisted – particularly because he himself had plans for the evening anyway.

“What’s your dad up to tonight?” Molly asked, as she filled the kettle.

Rosie had one eye on the door, aware that Bea was likely to appear with an armful of kittens at any moment.

“Oh, some meeting with a commissioning editor from his publishers,” she replied. “It was supposed to be at some fancy restaurant, but she’s coming round to our flat instead.”

Molly caught Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“I thought he’d got this ridiculous book thing out of his system,” he groused.

He was fooling no-one – or at least he wasn’t fooling Molly; she knew how much Sherlock had enjoyed the renewed attention, had relished turning down the appearances and media interviews.

“She wants him to write a sequel,” Rosie grinned, enjoying Sherlock’s apparent exasperation. “But I reckon maybe something else is going on, too, because this editor came to see Dad in hospital – twice. I’m pretty sure tonight is actually a date.”

This immediately made sense to Molly; she  _had_  bumped into another woman outside John’s hospital room – around fifty, pretty, and stylishly dressed - who had been making her way out. She tried to gauge Rosie’s reaction now. It wasn’t as though John had been without female company for the past eighteen years – taking up the mantle of celibacy abandoned by Sherlock – but very few women had ever been introduced to Rosie. John was too careful, with his own heart as well as hers.

"Ah, so that  _was_  aftershave I could smell earlier," Sherlock mused, apparently to nobody in particular. "It was either that or furniture polish.”

“Well…that’s nice for your dad…?” Molly said to Rosie, realising that her intonation made it sound like a question. She glanced at Sherlock, floundering slightly, but he was still pulling a face.

“Yeah,” Rosie replied, hitching herself onto a stool at the counter. “She seems nice. I met her at a couple of the book signings."

Molly watched her goddaughter sideways as she got her a drink, and Rosie really did seem completely nonchalant about the whole thing. Several times over the years, she had asked Molly whether she thought her dad would ever meet someone else, but she’d never asked it out of fear or insecurity – she’d always just seemed curious, perhaps even a little sad. Now, with Rosie about to take a big step towards independence, a distraction (and hopefully more than that) might be exactly what John needed.

“You don’t have to bunk in with Bea tonight, you know,” Molly said, quickly scanning the doorway in case their daughter was in earshot. “We can get the boys to go in together and you can have some space of your own.”

It was Will’s room Molly had in mind; Teddy’s was part-workshop, part junk shop, to the point where you had to look twice to see the bed. His room also had that musty, hamster-cage smell that until fairly recently had been the signature scent of Will’s (albeit tidier) bedroom, too; it was, Sherlock had confirmed to her, simply  _eau de fifteen-year-old boy_. Anyway, it seemed to be resistant to cleaning products, and it wasn’t fair or very welcoming to inflict that environment on Rosie.

“No, it’s fine, Aunt Molly,” Rosie replied. “Actually, I’m looking forward it. It’s where I always used to sleep before Bea was born, so it’ll be kind of nice.”

“Look, Rosie!”

Bea was entering the room, carrying a pair of Sherlock’s shoes, in each of which was a small and slightly startled-looking kitten.

“Beatrice, those are Yves Saint Laurent Etons!” Sherlock spluttered, clattering his mug down on the counter.

Molly couldn’t help but smile at Bea’s blank expression.

“They’ve got a really nice lining,” Bea reasoned, with a slight shrug. “I think that’s why the cats like them.”

“Yes, the ‘really nice lining’ might have something to do with the fact that they cost over five-hundred pounds,” Sherlock retorted.

“Seriously?” Bea asked, looking between the shoes and her dad. “They’re pretty boring for five-hundred pounds; I could buy ten much nicer pairs for that.”

Molly had had the same conversation with Sherlock at least annually for the past eighteen years.

“Let’s get you out of there,” Rosie said, lifting a ginger kitten out of Sherlock’s left shoe. She handed the shoe back to Sherlock, who immediately scrutinised it as though it had been despoiled forever.

“That one’s Ada,” Bea said, authoritatively. “After Ada Lovelace. And the white one’s Rosalind – you know, like Rosalind Franklin.”

It was fair to say that Bea had been more than a bit inspired lately by the  _Great Women in Science_  book she’d been given by Sherlock’s mother. Luckily for her, five of the six kittens were female (the other, to Molly’s quiet delight, Bea had named Toby).

“Beatrice, what did we say about naming them?” Sherlock said. “If we name things, we invariably end up keeping them. Something very similar happened with _you_ eleven years ago, and now look where we are.”

“Eleven-and-a-half,” Bea corrected. “And obviously, you wouldn’t have given me away because I’m too amazing.”

Rosie laughed at this.

“I remember that Uncle Sherlock  _did_  think you were pretty amazing,” she said, eyeing Sherlock with a gleam. “It’s the only time I’ve ever heard him sing **:** when you were a baby, and he used to sing to you.”

Molly saw Sherlock colour momentarily.

“Ugh, well  _you’ve_  never heard him sing in the shower,” Bea said to Rosie. “He does, like, opera stuff. It’s really embarrassing.”

Now Sherlock’s expression shifted from mild discomfiture to one of defiance.

“Yes, well, I’m practicing for when you have friends over to stay,” Sherlock told their daughter. “Of course, I will wear a towel for that particular performance, but probably just a small one. I’ve found there to be a direct correlation between the quality of my operatic baritone and the scantiness of my clothing.”

Rosie sniggered, causing some alarm to the kitten in her arms, which she just managed to catch as it made a leap for the kitchen scales. Just as a disgusted Bea was about to compose a comeback to her father, they all heard the front door close; a few seconds later, Will arrived in the kitchen. He was dressed in his jujitsu outfit, and quickly said his hellos before making a beeline for the cupboard, from which he took a huge glass and went to fill it at the tap. At least, Molly noted, he wasn’t drinking directly from the tap as he did on some occasions, or straight from their milk carton – she put this down to the fact that they had company. Speaking of which…she couldn’t help noticing that Rosie suddenly seemed distracted, when a couple of minutes earlier she couldn’t have been more relaxed. As though she wanted to look at Will, but also didn’t.

After a couple of gulps, Will turned back to them all.

“Have you ordered from Angelo’s yet?” he asked, eyes flicking around the group, questioningly.

“Hello to you, too, sweetheart,” Molly said, sidling up beside Will to give him a quick hug. In the past couple of months, William had sprouted another couple of inches, and was now almost level in height with Sherlock; he was lean, with dark, tousled curls, and although it was possible Molly was a tiny bit biased, it was obvious to everyone that William Holmes was very handsome.

“We’ve already eaten, and we fed your  _penne arrabiata_  to the cats,” Sherlock told him, glancing at Molly. “Now that we have six extra mouths to feed, I’m afraid it’s every man for himself.”

Will gave Sherlock a withering look, then crossed the room to where Rosie was sitting and started to pet the kitten she was holding. Again, Molly found herself watching her goddaughter, whose gaze would land on Will before quickly shifting off to one side.

“Is your dad recovering okay?” Will asked, standing back and taking another swig of water.

“Yeah, thanks,” Rosie nodded. “And thanks for your messages.”

Will nodded in response, both teenagers clearly uncomfortable about the public nature of their conversation.

“What messages?” Bea piped up, curiously.

Will looked irritated.

“Just texts,” he told her, with a vague waving gesture and a slightly defensive tone. “You know, to ask how Uncle John was getting on.”                                           

Molly could see that Bea’s curiosity had not been satisfied, and that – knowing her children – this was probably going to escalate if it was allowed to continue unchecked. So she directed Bea to return the kittens to the other room and to feed the entire Holmes menagerie, and suggested that Will go and get himself changed while Sherlock phoned in their takeaway order. Bea gave Sherlock her food order, and Bea took Ada-the-kitten back from Rosie before she left the room.

“So,” Molly said, taking some salad vegetables out of the fridge. “Have you got everything you need for uni now?”

Rosie slid off her stool and went to wash her hands at the sink before joining Molly at the kitchen counter.

“Think so,” she replied, picking up a knife and sliding a chopping board in front of herself. “We’ve been to Ikea to get stuff for my room, and my books have all arrived now. Dad’s actually paid for me to have a phone upgrade, too, although I think that’s because I’ve now got unlimited call time.”

“You could always block his number,” Sherlock suggested, without looking up from his own phone. “I do it intermittently myself when he’s being boring.”

Molly shot Sherlock a disapproving frown, at which he looked genuinely surprised.

“I’ve been using my new laptop already,” Rosie continued. “It’s an amazing present – thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Molly told her, as she set about shredding the lettuce. “You can hardly be expected to be a crusading investigative journalist without a decent laptop.”

Rosie laughed.

“Well, it’s great,” she said. “And really generous.”

“Mm, that reminds me,” Molly said, wiping her hands and crossing over to the old-style kitchen dresser that had come with their house so many years ago. “I’m afraid it was a two-part present. You get the laptop, but you have to take this with you as well.”

Rosie took the photo frame from Molly’s hand; it contained a picture of the entire Holmes family with Rosie on her eighteenth birthday, which John had taken in the restaurant where they had celebrated. It was a lovely photo, and even Sherlock and Will had found it within themselves to smile, as opposed to most photos where they both looked as though they were about to face a firing squad.

“Molly is under the impression that you might forget us,” Sherlock said, looking pointedly at her. “Given that you will be almost nine miles away in the wilds of south-east London, hopelessly cut off from all modern forms of communication.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. She aimed a cherry tomato at his face, which he instead caught with annoying ease, popping it into his mouth and eating it with one eyebrow raised at her in challenge. She’d get him later – she always did.

“I’m definitely  _not_  going to forget you,” Rosie smiled. “I’ll be coming back regularly for food, anyway.”

“We’ll always be pleased to see you,” Molly told her, surprised at the lump that seemed to suddenly appear in her throat at those words.

“Speaking of food, shall I take the stuff through for Bea to give the kittens?” Rosie asked.

Molly opened what was now very definitely the pet supplies cupboard and pulled out several ludicrously expensive pouches of kitten food, and some miniature bottles of kitten milk. She could feel Sherlock rolling his eyes behind her, but he was in absolutely no position to complain about the expense. To this gourmet collection, Molly added a bag of kibble for the disgraced father (Winston, not Sherlock) and some dry food for Mycroft-the-dog. Rosie’s eyes widened as Molly loaded up her arms, but once she’d balanced herself, she went off in search of Bea.

For no reason except that she wanted to, Molly went over to plant a quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips before she returned to the salad preparation. Dutifully, he followed her to the counter and picked up where Rosie left off.

After a few moments, he spoke.

“So, she still hasn’t said anything.”

Molly darted a glance up to him, then shook her head.

“It’s not like we gave her a deadline,” she said softly. “She must still be thinking it over.”

“And we just…wait?”

He was frowning slightly, struggling, Molly knew, with the possibility of such open-endedness. It had been nearly five months since Rosie turned eighteen, and although Mary made her presence felt in their conversations that day, they had yet to return to the topic of the thin file of information in the bureau drawer. 

“Yes,” Molly nodded, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “We just wait.”

 

00000000

An hour or so later, the dining room table looked as though it had been directly transported from Angelo’s. In addition to their order, Angelo – because he knew it was a special occasion – had thrown in a variety of starters, as well as two large cannoli, which were going to be a challenge even for the six of them. It was the sign of a good meal being well enjoyed, Molly reflected, when there was near-silence in the room; when even Bea and Teddy couldn’t think of anything to say that was more important than the next mouthful.

In between periods of contented eating, they had covered the topics of Rosie’s university course, her accommodation, Bea’s recent move to secondary school, the fate of the kittens (again), and of course Sherlock’s equal parts heroic and hilarious rescue of John.

As Molly watched Rosie, she couldn’t help thinking of herself thirty-five years earlier, packing up the contents of her bedroom in preparation for an entirely new life as a medical student in London. Oscillating between feverish excitement and crippling self-doubt - and of course the pangs of guilt about leaving her dad on his own, something that had to be afflicting Rosie in some way, too.

Sherlock, Molly knew, had virtually no memory of the build-up to or start of his university experience – it had been a shock to his parents that he’d even remembered to turn up for his A level exams, or been in a fit state to complete them, so the fact that he was taking up a place at university was astonishing to all of them. As it was, he had refused his parents’ offer to accompany him on his first day – and probably as a result of this, he had turned up with little more than the clothes he was wearing, two-hundred cigarettes, an early-model Nokia phone and his framed periodic table.

“So, what’s Mat doing this year?” Molly asked Rosie. Out of the corner of her eye, she was fairly certain she could see Will glowering at his  _penne_. (As recently as a few days ago, Molly had heard her son describe Rosie’s boyfriend as a ‘posturing ignoramus with a terrible haircut’.)

“Oh,” Rosie said, clearly taken a little by surprise. “He’s, er, he’s going to Liverpool Uni. Actually, I think he’s already gone.”

The subtext was obvious, and Molly immediately regretted having brought it up.

“We…um…we broke up a few weeks ago,” Rosie added. “It wasn’t really going anywhere, and well, you now, with uni and everything…Anyway, it’s all fine.”

“He was rubbish at Cluedo,” Bea offered.

Rosie laughed.

“Yeah, you’re right, he was,” she agreed.

“He did have a nice bum, though,” Bea added.

“Beatrice!” Sherlock exclaimed, as Teddy sniggered and Will rolled his eyes.

“What?” Bea asked. “He did!”

Sherlock turned to Molly with a slightly horrified expression; it seemed as though he might be expecting her to do or say something, but at that moment Molly was simply trying not to laugh.

“Bea, it’s, er…” Molly began, trying to compose herself. “It’s not nice to…er…objectify people, is it?”

It was Bea’s turn to roll her eyes now, but it seemed to bring the subject of Rosie’s ex-boyfriend’s superior posterior to a close. But where one controversial subject closed, another seemed to begin…

“Well, I’m sure Will is behind your decision one hundred per-cent, Rosie,” Teddy said to Rosie, sliding a look across to his brother. “Right, Will?”

Molly frowned at her younger son; it was now certain who’d be doing the dishes and taking out the bins that evening. To William’s credit, he didn’t leap across the table and perform a jujitsu chokehold on Teddy; instead, he calmly turned to his brother and offered him a fixed smile.

“What Rosie does is her business,” he replied crisply. “But, generally speaking, I would applaud her decision to concentrate on her academic pursuits.”

At that moment, Molly was certain she saw Rosie’s face fall, but she quickly recomposed herself, tucking a hair behind her ear and spearing another piece of meatball with her fork. When Molly chanced a surreptitious glance at Sherlock, it was clear he had seen it, too; his eyes flicked between William and Rosie, his brow furrowed as he raised his glass to his mouth.

A short while later, when Molly had whisked the remaining cannoli from the table to save Sherlock and Teddy from themselves, and was boxing up the meagre leftovers in the kitchen, she could hear laughter coming from the living room. It was sustained enough to make her curious, and when she arrived in the living room she saw Rosie, Bea and Teddy crowded around Rosie’s laptop.

“Am I going to regret asking what you’re looking at?” she asked, eyeing them all suspiciously.

“Come and look, Mum!” Bea said. “Rosie’s got loads of old pictures on here.”

“I thought I’d put them all on my laptop before I go off to uni,” Rosie explained. “Keep them all in one place.”

They were in the middle of looking at photographs from John and Mary’s wedding, some of which Molly realised – when she perched on the arm of the sofa for a better look – she either hadn’t seen for years or for some reason hadn’t seen at all. Seeing them couldn’t help, as always, but cause a welter of emotions to come flooding in - but perhaps it was significant, Molly thought, that these days the positive feelings outweighed the pain and sadness.

“Mum, that thing in your hair is  _massive_!” Bea said, pointing at the elaborate bow that Molly could remember swearing repeatedly about as she hurried to get ready for the wedding.

“And it’s all really… _yellow_ ,” Teddy added, frowning, as though this defied explanation.

“I like yellow,” Molly replied, tousling Teddy’s hair.

“Better than lavender anyway,” Rosie smiled, gesturing to the bridesmaid dresses.

“I believe it was lilac,” said Sherlock, smiling, as he entered the room. Will was behind him; they had both been moving the fold-up bed into Bea’s room.

“Your dad could have had a second career as a wedding planner,” Molly told the children, grinning at Sherlock. He still had a habit, when waiting impatiently for food to arrive at restaurants, of fashioning the napkins into swans or the Sydney Opera House.

“Is _that_ Tom?” Bea asked, wrinkling her nose at one of the informal snaps of Molly and Tom in the reception venue. Although the Holmes children knew about her former fiancé, Molly hadn’t been falling over herself to dig out the photos. “He looks a bit like Dad,” Bea added.

“Yes, he  _does_ ,  _doesn’t_  he?” Sherlock said, shooting a sly look in Molly’s direction. She’d get him back for that later, too.

“Woah, who is  _that_?” Teddy interjected, leaning over to peer at the screen.

Molly immediately saw that there was no need to get Sherlock back any longer; his blush and discomfort now was enough.

“That is, ah, that is Janine,” Sherlock said curtly. “Mary’s chief bridesmaid.”

Teddy was evidently impressed.

“Don’t Google her,” Sherlock added quickly, in a warning tone.

The nostalgia continued through Rosie’s early months, her christening and various family – and surrogate family – events, right up until Rosie’s eighteenth birthday. Noticing how late it was getting, Molly eventually left them to it, heading upstairs to find some bedding for Rosie’s bed. She was in Bea’s bedroom, trying to stuff a duvet into a spare case, when there was a soft knock at the door, and Rosie came in.

“Can…can I ask you something, Aunty Molly?” she said.

It struck Molly that it had been a while since Rosie called her ‘aunty’.

“Of course. What is it? I hope you weren’t going to ask to change duvet covers, because I know this one is pretty hideous, but it’s the only one that’s clean,” Molly told her, smiling.

“No, it’s fine,” Rosie replied. “I…I was going to ask if it’s…if it’s okay that I’m still angry at my mum sometimes?”

Rosie chewed at her lip; her expression was so incredibly earnest and vulnerable that she briefly looked to Molly as though she was seven years old again. Molly dropped the duvet and beckoned Rosie over to the bed, encouraging her to sit.

“Of course it’s okay,” she said. “I mean, I hope it is, because sometimes I’m still a bit angry at her, too. Not often anymore, and not all that seriously, but just…sometimes.”

“I still don’t know if I want to find out all that stuff about her life,” Rosie continued, picking at a thread on Bea’s bedcover. “I think I probably do, but…I want to get settled at uni, I want to have the time to properly…get my head around it.”

Molly smiled.

“Sounds like a really good idea,” she said. “And when you’re ready, you know where to find us.”

Rosie nodded.

“You know, I didn’t find out the truth about your mum until after she died,” Molly said, turning to her.  “And that was hard. I couldn’t help it; I felt like I’d been lied to. But…I eventually came to accept that the Mary Watson I knew was genuine, and so were the friendships and relationships she had formed. Your mum…the silence she kept about her past was to protect the people she cared about, and that is why, Rosie, that is the  _only_  reason that your dad and Sherlock and I are being so cautious over this new information. It doesn’t matter that you’re an adult now – we’re still always going to want to protect you from anything dangerous or painful.”                                                                               

“I know,” Rosie smiled.

She looked around the bedroom, taking it in; the wallpaper and paintwork might be different, and the furniture changed over the years, but the feel of the room and the view from the window was the same as the day Molly and Sherlock had brought Rosie to see their new home. Molly snaked her arm around Rosie’s waist and gave her a quick squeeze.

 

00000000

Molly found Sherlock on his own in the living room, stretched out on the sofa with his glasses perched halfway down his noise, reading a book on entomology. Or attempting to read – one of the kittens was curled on his chest, part blocking his view, and another was using his left leg as a balance beam. A third was sprawled on the back of the sofa, perilously close to Sherlock’s head.

“This is very sweet,” Molly grinned, gesturing to his feline charges. “And to think that I spent so long worrying that  _I_  was going to end up as a crazy cat lady.”

Sherlock lowered his book.

“I can’t help but feel that wherever he is now, Toby is having the last laugh.”

Molly smiled, and moved across to the sofa, scooping up the kitten that was now nestled between Sherlock’s knees and making space for herself beside him. He carefully swung himself around, one hand supporting the other kitten, and the other setting his book down on the coffee table.

“Research?” Molly asked.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

“John has been prescribed rest for another month,” he said, removing his glasses. “Things are quiet on the blog, and Scotland Yard hasn’t sent me anything worthwhile for weeks.”

“You’re wondering what you’re going to do?” Molly asked.

Things had changed, she knew. Not only was Lestrade long retired, but Donovan and Dimmock now were, too, and Hopkins had taken a senior job up in Manchester. Sherlock never seemed to have taken to any of the younger detectives who came through the ranks after them, but he had also, Molly knew, become even pickier about the cases he took on – although he wouldn’t have admitted it, Sherlock Holmes had become more of a homebody.

“You’re welcome to come and use the lab,” she told him. “If you don’t mind sharing it with half a dozen new student pathologists.”

Molly was rarely working in the lab for long periods herself these days; now that she was a consultant, other people carried out most of her lab work. It was the same with the morgue; she tended only to be called in if there was anything out of the ordinary or that needed a second opinion.

“That sounds unspeakably awful,” Sherlock replied, as he attempted to make the kitten release its grip on his shirt front.

It was then that a thought occurred to Molly, perhaps inspired by the book Sherlock had been reading; she wondered whether she might live to regret it, but the timing seemed…right.

“Why don’t you think about doing the bee thing, then?” she suggested.

Sherlock looked up, as though he thought he might have misheard.

“What? You don’t mean…you mean actually getting some hives?”

Molly nodded, watching his eyes light up at this confirmation.

“The kids aren’t out in the garden as much these days,” she said. “And you should probably do it before grandchildren start to come along.”

Usually, Sherlock would blanch at the mention of possible grandchildren, but his brain was clearly already completely consumed by the reality of actually progressing one of his long-held fascinations from theory into practice. Suddenly, Molly found herself listening to a kind of stream-of-consciousness plan for the kind of hives he would buy, the equipment he would require, additional literature he would need to consult, and where he would source the bees. At the end of this, Sherlock quickly leaned forward and planted a firm kiss on her lips, almost tipping her backwards onto the sofa. Molly grabbed onto his neck to prevent herself losing her balance entirely.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said, slightly breathlessly.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled. “Although in return I obviously do expect the very best honey in all of west London.”

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke again.

“Do you…do you see us being here forever?” he asked.

Molly frowned.

“What do you mean? Here in this house? Here in London?”

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully.

“I…I have started to wonder about the Sussex Downs,” he said, tentatively. “We used to go there a lot when I was a child and it seemed idyllic, and I…I always thought I would go back. How…would you feel about possibly retiring there?”

Molly realised that her eyes were growing wider as he spoke.

“Retiring? Sherlock, it sounds…lovely,” she started to reply. “But I’m kind of worried about what might happen to you if you cut yourself off from London.”

“It wouldn’t be completely,” he said quickly. “I would always want to keep 221B in the family; somewhere for us to all get together, wherever Will and Teddy and Bea end up being scattered.”

Some time ago, Sherlock had offered to buy the leasehold for 221B from Mrs Hudson, and her response was to chastise him – she had been planning to give it to him and Molly as a gift anyway.

“And I don’t mean immediately either, Molly,” he added. “I know that you don’t want to leave the hospital just yet, and that Bea is certainly several years away from finishing school but perhaps…we could look into it? If we found somewhere, it wouldn’t need to be our permanent home just yet. John could even come to Sussex, too, if he likes - we could build him a granny flat in the garden.”

Molly laughed.

“I get the feeling John’s going to be fine for company,” she said, thinking back to Rosie’s comments earlier in the evening. She paused, studying his face for a moment. “You’re actually serious about this?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You and I have been together for over eighteen years,” he said. “We have produced three wonderful, maddening, brilliant children, and have done our best to be a positive, guiding influence in the life of a fourth. I know that we will continue to have obligations and commitments towards other people – but I can’t help wanting to plan a future for  _us_. I realise, of course, that you will insist on having a house with sufficient space for everyone single one of our acquaintances to come and stay, but I am prepared to tolerate that.”

Molly felt another smile start to creep across her face. Up until a few minutes ago, she had just assumed that they had set down roots for life, and she had been fine with that – but she immediately knew that she would be more than fine with this alternative, too.

“I’ve got a day off next Wednesday,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I quite fancy a day trip to the south coast.”

Just then, the living room door opened and Bea came into the room, looking for the escaped kittens so she could put them all to bed.

“Where’s everyone else?” Sherlock asked, stretching his arm around Molly’s shoulder.

“Teddy’s upstairs with that thing he’s building,” Bea replied. “And Will said he and Rosie said were taking Myc for a walk.”

Molly glanced sideways to catch Sherlock’s reaction.

“They’ve gone out? Together?” he asked.

“Yeah, to walk Myc,” Bea repeated, clearly worried that her father was either becoming deaf or stupid. “Even though I _told_ Will that Teddy took him out just before you got home with Rosie.” 

“Well, Myc never turns down a walk,” Molly reasoned.

“Yeah, but Will does,” Bea replied. “He _never_ volunteers to walk Myc.”

Once she was loaded up with cats, Bea left them alone again.

“So how long do we leave it before we go after them?” Sherlock said, turning to Molly. “An average dog-walk shouldn’t take any longer than half an hour, don’t you think?”

Molly gave a brief snort of laughter.

“Sherlock, we are definitely  _not_  going after them,” she told him.

“You’re laughing  _now_ , Molly,” he replied. “But just picture the scene later tonight: ‘Sorry for interrupting your date, John, but whereas you _thought_ your daughter was due to embark on her university career next week, she is in fact on a train heading for Gretna Green in the company of your godson and an unwitting canine accomplice. I can try to charter a helicopter, but by the time we catch up with them, I’m afraid she might already be Mrs William Holmes.’”

Molly looked at Sherlock’s face; she hated to make light of his anxiety, but at the same time it was  _completely_  ridiculous – even for him.

“That is not going to happen,” she said, pausing for a moment before adding. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Rosie wouldn’t take Will’s name.”

“Jokes, Molly?  _Really?_ ”

With a roll of her eyes, she took Sherlock’s hand.

“They’re walking the dog, Sherlock,” she told him. “And they will be back very soon, you’ll see.”

Although Molly believed this wholeheartedly, she knew it didn’t exclude the possibility that the two teenagers _had_ deliberately carved out some time alone together. It seemed quite likely, in fact. She had been at real pains to make it clear to Rosie that she would always be welcome in their home, but perhaps now their goddaughter would be back more frequently than she and Sherlock might have expected.

Sherlock relaxed into the corner of the sofa, and Molly went with him, tucking into his side with his arm around her shoulder; immediately, she felt his fingertips moving gently through her hair. When their relationship was still new, she could remember being surprised by just how tactile Sherlock was – sometimes, of course, it had been (and sometimes still was) an overture to sex, but more often than not he just seemed to enjoy contact. She supposed he had deprived himself of touch for so long that the sudden floods of oxytocin must have been fascinating.                                                                                                     

“I suppose it would change things a bit, wouldn’t it?” he said eventually, clearly still musing on the same subject. "Between us all."

Molly still thought Sherlock was running away with himself, but it wouldn't do much good to tell him that. She thought about when Rosie was born, how she accepted the role of godmother to the newest Watson with no hesitation and without much thought; how everything was upturned and roles were redefined when Mary died, and again when their own children started to arrive. She thought about the day it became clear that she and Sherlock were about to jump the tracks together and become more than just friends.

"Maybe a little," she conceded. "But we're good at change."

Sherlock gave a chuff of laughter.

" _You_  are," he said. "I'm just fortunate that you have the patience to take me with you, Molly."

She turned her head to look up at him.

"Every time," she smiled. "Always."

As they sat there, Molly was eventually aware of footsteps coming up the front path - the soft tread of trainers and the quick scraping of paws - along with two muffled voices and the metallic rattle of a dog tag. She and Sherlock both turned their heads in the direction of the living room window before exchanging looks with each other. After what seemed like a _very_ long moment, there was the sound of a key turning in the latch.

“I know that as trusting and trusted parents and godparents, we should probably stay here and act normal, but…” Molly began.

“But?”

“I _really_ want to see their faces.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her, and his face spread into a smile.

“And I thought _I_ was the corrupting influence in this marriage,” he said. 

“Nope,” Molly grinned. “I just let you think that for eighteen years. Come on.”

She held out her hand to him, and he took it.

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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